


Survival Instinct

by Lindstrom



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: 1960s, Armando is alive, Charles Xavier Needs a Hug, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles gets a hug, Cuban Missile Crisis, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Hugs and Cuddles, Kidnapping, M/M, Paternal Logan, Period Typical Sexism, Protective Erik Lehnsherr, Requited Love, Seriously Awesome Plot, Sibling issues, Wordcount: Over 100.000, angst/hurt/comfort/humor/exasperation, more submarines, mostly established relationship, nuclear submarines, period typical racism, wonky telepathy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 115,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindstrom/pseuds/Lindstrom
Summary: It’s been months since Charles pulled Erik out of the ocean, and Erik is beginning to wonder how many more times he can choose Charles, and still keep his vow to kill Shaw. Cooperating with the CIA is straining Erik’s patience. When a fact-gathering mission goes wrong and Charles is kidnapped, Erik is left trying to hold their mutant band together while Raven and the rest of them fall apart. No one can foresee how the mutant Charles meets in captivity will challenge all his assumptions about his own power, and twist Charles’ telepathy out of his control. In the race to stop Shaw's nuclear ambitions from coming to fruition, Charles makes a crucial misstep. Erik’s decision between Shaw and Charles takes on unexpected ramifications when [spoiler deleted].**Author saw XMFC for the first time last summer (2018) (yeah, I know), so this is the fix-it fic that should have been posted in 2012 with all the rest of them. Mmm, oh well.**





	1. Plans

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve stretched out the timeline of XMFC. Charles pulled Erik out of the ocean eight months ago, just under a year after the failed Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba in April 1961. Charles got wind of Shaw’s planned attack on the CIA facility before it happened, and they safely evacuated their small mutant band. Janos destroyed Cerebro. Azazel killed some of the agents. But Armando is alive (yay!) and Angel hasn't left the team. Emma did not get captured in Russia (the Russia trip didn’t happen) and she is still working with Shaw. Because the Russia trip didn't happen, Charles and Erik don't know Shaw's master plan to set off the Cuban Missile Crisis and a nuclear war. This fic opens in mid-September, 1962, about six weeks before the Cuban Missile Crisis.
> 
> Many thanks to TaylorAriel and ToriTC198 for the beta read!

Erik props himself up on his elbow to watch Charles drag out the process of waking up, and wonders what their CIA handlers would think of the fact that the world’s most powerful telepath drools in his sleep. Charles sleeps on his side, which has its salivary hazards. 

With a long exhale, Charles stretches, then rolls over and scoots until his back is pressed against Erik’s front and he settles into the spoon, nestling his sweet round backside into Erik’s pelvis. If he keeps that up, Charles is going to get a sequel to last night, which isn’t such a bad idea. 

“What makes you think I always want to spoon with you?” Erik asks with a grumble, his tone offset by the way his hand is stroking Charles’ bare chest.

“I just know,” Charles says, without opening his eyes.

 “You’re arrogant, you know that?” Erik replies, reaching up to fondle Charles’ earlobe. 

“I can’t help it that I know everything,” Charles mumbles. 

With a flick of his power, Erik slips the curtain rings along the rod and sunshine lands abruptly on Charles’ sleepy face.

“You fiend!” Charles exclaims, and then rolls over to hit Erik in the chest.

It turns into a wrestling match, with muffled grunts and more groping than is strictly necessary. The CIA has them both training for physical combat, and Erik isn’t really trying very hard. He ends up with Charles sprawled over the top of him, pinning Erik’s hands above his head, both of them breathing hard and the sheets all twisted.

“Are you going to kiss your captive?” Erik says suggestively.

Charles wrinkles his nose. “With your dragon breath? I don’t think so.”

Then he yelps as Erik tosses him off and rolls over on top of him. Erik plants a wet, sloppy kiss right in the center of Charles’ forehead and then gets out of bed to go work out.

 

* * *

        


An hour later, Erik finishes a workout he hasn’t been paying much attention to anyway. He’s amusing himself by watching Charles be shocked at how quickly his sister is learning martial arts. Raven has just kicked higher than her head to knock down a sawdust-filled bag, then followed it up with a few sharp jabs and another maneuver that would have split anyone else in half. Charles is about as flexible as a fire hydrant. 

Charles approaches Raven and begins coaching her on her use of her mutation; Raven starts shifting form between their various CIA trainers while kicking and leaping. It slows her down, and her transformations aren’t complete either - she leaves off all the hair when she transforms into Charles at the end of her routine. The professor gives his bald doppelganger an offended look before Raven shifts back to her blue form, says something not completely respectful to Charles judging by the expression on his face, and walks off. 

If Charles doesn’t back off, or make more of an effort to accept Raven for who she is, he’s going to cause a permanent rift. None of them are designed to fit in, not even Charles; he just won’t accept it. The other children are willing to accept Charles as their professor and leader, but a sister who is already challenging an older brother’s control needs to be approached differently than the others. For all his telepathy, Charles can completely miss some things. 

They’ve had the argument about whether or not mutants and humans can live together peacefully so many times that Erik has stopped arguing. He suspects that every time Charles tries to convince Erik, he convinces himself even more. 

Erik may dislike Charles’ philosophy, but he has to admit he’s made excellent progress in teaching them how to use their mutations. Thinking of Charles’ coaching reminds Erik of the exercises Charles has him working on. After both of them satisfied themselves that Erik could move huge things like satellite dishes, and fast things like bullets, Charles set Erik to working on fine control. Could he move tiny things just a little bit? Erik started out thinking it would be ridiculously easy, but found it to be a challenge. Pinpoint control demands concentration, and the ability to visualize exactly what he wants to do rather than just thinking vague thoughts like ‘throw anchor through yacht.’ 

Blocking out the rest of the room, Erik focuses on the sense of the metal around him, seeing the shapes of the exercise equipment, the watch band on Sean’s wrist and the snaps on Armando’s jacket tossed in the corner. He shifts his focus out of the room and into the walls, tracing the delicate wiring of the room’s electrical system. It would be easy to simply blow the wiring into destruction. Instead, he traces one tiny wire to the terminal on the switch, and shifts it a minute amount. The lights in the room turn off.

“Hey, what!” There are a variety of shouts. The workout room only has two small windows, and the room is gloomy with the lights off.

Erik concentrates, shifts that tiny wire back, and the lights come back on.

_ Charles! Guess what I can do! _

_ Yes, I’m very proud of you. _ Charles’ mental tone is dry.

Erik grins like a fool, which makes Jerren give him a funny look. Erik keeps looking back at Jerren with that fixed grin until Jerren turns away.

_ What’s Jerren thinking right now? _ Erik asks Charles.

_ I’m not dipping into his head just to see if you spooked him with that maniacal grin. _

_ I already know I spooked him. I want you to find out if he’s spooked because I’m a mutant, or because I’d be spooky even as a human. _

From across the room, Charles sighs.  _ I am not sussing out anti-mutant bias using my telepathy. _

Moira MacTaggert enters the room and Oliver goes to meet her. Erik joins the group gathering around Moira. It has been eight months since Charles pulled him out of the ocean after his failed attempt to kill Shaw, and the CIA has come up with precious little information on Shaw’s whereabouts since then. Erik frequently considers leaving and trying to track Shaw on his own again, but the elegant simplicity of ‘Find Shaw - Kill Shaw’ has been complicated by the difficulty of avoiding Shaw’s telepath and the other lethal mutants on Shaw’s team. Charles was right that day he told Erik that he could do with having a few friends. Erik now has friends, or at least one friend and several people who tolerate him, as well as a link to the CIA’s intelligence gathering activities.

The information on Shaw comes by drips and hints. The destruction of his yacht and Erik’s attack on Shaw’s submarine has scared the man underground. At least, Erik likes to think that he’s scared Shaw into hiding. Moira thinks that Shaw is working on a scheme that has nothing to do with avoiding Erik. Erik finds that offensive.

“We’ve found a location we believe is a front for Shaw’s team,” Moira says.

“How did you determine that?” Erik asks.

“That’s proprietary information,” Moira says.

_ Charles? _

_ I don’t read minds at your request, Erik. _

Sometimes Charles’ ethics can be really annoying. 

_ I heard that. _

“We don’t want to shut down this location; we’d rather it stay active so we can watch it. Several persons of interest have been seen entering this location with briefcases and exiting empty handed. We have reason to believe that the information in the briefcases is classified military material about nuclear submarine construction. The Soviets have reduced their fleet of diesel attack subs in favor of building nuclear submarines. They’re stealing our designs. If we knew which designs they were stealing, we could identify the spies or others who may have been compromised through blackmail or threats. This mission is to gather that information without tipping them off that we know about this place,” Moira says.

A mission? This wasn’t just an informational update then. They hadn’t been out on a mission in 11 weeks, when they’d gone back to the Hellfire Club and Erik sat outside in a car with Charles while Moira and Raven infiltrated another party and Charles turned purple with outrage and embarrassment because he had to stay linked to Raven’s mind the entire time. Raven had confided later that some of her efforts to play the part of the hired entertainment had been precisely because she knew how outraged Charles would be. Erik was trying to stay out of the brewing sibling explosion, so he hadn’t passed that on to Charles.

“I’ll meet you in the war room for a briefing in 15 minutes.”

“I’ll get the others,” Raven offers.

Moira shakes her head. “This mission is just you and Charles.”

“And me,” Erik reminds her.

“Not you,” Moira says.

“We’ll discuss it in 15 minutes,” Charles interrupts them. “Go shower.”

Fifteen minutes gives Erik plenty of time to marshal all of his arguments about why he is going on this mission with Raven and Charles, or Mystique and Professor X, as Moira refers to them in front of the two human CIA operatives they meet in the war room. 

The mission itself is simple. The business is a title company renting space in a building otherwise full of law firms and financial managers. Mystique will transform into the likeness of the receptionist. Once she’s inside, Charles will freeze the others in the office while Mystique finds the briefcases and takes photographs of the files with a camera that one of the humans, codename Fisher, demonstrates. It’s tiny, no bigger than Erik’s hand, with a reusable flash cube. Mystique has to hold it perfectly still though, or the photo will blur and they won’t be able to read it.

“Don’t they have a mimeograph machine?” Raven asks. “Everyone has a mimeograph machine these days.”

“Mimeographs leave a record of what’s been copied, and we don’t want anything to make them suspicious,” Moira says.

Raven sighs. “Do I get to kick anyone in the head? Why am I learning all this stuff if I never get to kick anyone in the head?”

“If you have to kick anyone in the head, it will mean the mission failed. Please keep it boring, keep your feet on the ground, and stay as inconspicuous as possible,” Moira says.

Raven sighs again, and turns back to the human who is showing her how to change the film cartridge. She will only be able to take 108 photos before she runs out of film, and patience too, if anyone wants to be honest about it. 

“Spy work is tedious,” Raven grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“At least you can wear enough clothing this time,” Charles says. 

“Once you’ve got them all frozen, I’ll turn blue and strip naked,” Raven replies, with an equal snap in her voice.

“The reason I’m coming along is to keep these two agents from going rogue and killing each other, thereby endangering the mission,” Erik breaks in.

Fisher takes back his camera. “You’re not agents. You’re adjunct operatives. Don’t confuse the two.”

“We need a certain level of professionalism,” Moira reminds them.

Erik doesn’t have anything against Moira. She tends to talk to Charles more than the rest of them. Perhaps that has given her the idea that all of the mutants are as eager and compliant as Charles. She should know better.

“Does he have to be in my head the whole time?” Raven demands.

Ah, and now they get to Raven’s real gripe. She hates having Charles in her mind. 

“I just see through your eyes, I’m not sifting through anything else,” Charles says apologetically.

Charles’ weakness is that he wants to be liked. He would be so much more effective if he was more like Erik, and didn’t give a damn what people thought of him. 

“Do you have a second camera? Once Charles has them all frozen, I can enter the office and help with photos,” Erik says. 

“That’s a great idea! Let’s do that,” Raven gushes.

Fisher aims a look of disgust at Moira, as if Raven’s attitude is Moira’s fault. It’s not like there is a deep recruiting pool of shapeshifters and telepaths. Erik might not be overly fond of Moira, nothing personal as he’s not overly fond of anyone, but Fisher is out of line to visibly disparage Moira’s authority. Perhaps he’s one of those sexists who resents Moira being the team leader on a project as interesting as working with the mutants. 

Moira decides to save face by pretending that adding Magneto to the team will benefit the mission rather than being a way to avoid losing an argument with said Magneto in front of Fisher.


	2. Plans Interrupted

Erik sits in a lobby on the 5th floor, reading a National Geographic from 1956, wearing a charcoal suit and ostensibly waiting for an appointment with a lawyer. 

_ Raven’s on her way. _

Erik sets down the National Geographic and checks his watch, deciding that showing a little bit of impatience would be more natural to any observers than sitting there and waiting like he is fine with having spent 45 minutes in the lobby.

_ What took so long? _

_ My fault, sorry. There are more people in the office than we expected. I wasn’t confident that I could freeze them all from the van parked in the street. We’re now in a conference room two floors down. _

_ Will it affect your concentration to keep an open channel with me? _

_ It might _ , Charles hedges.  _ Try to keep the communication to only what’s absolutely necessary. I’ve got enough to deal with. _

_ Raven giving you static? _

_ Let’s focus on the mission, _ Charles replies, and then the sense of him in Erik’s head attenuates.

Worried that spending any more time in the lobby will attract attention, even if it is just a secretary coming to ask him who he was waiting for, Erik goes to the restroom, finds a drinking fountain and fixes the jammed valve, then walks a lap around the fifth floor. He wants to ask Charles if Raven is in place yet, but he’s already said he’s busy.

At long last, he gets the go-ahead from Charles. Erik strides to the office and slips inside. Frozen clients and employees crowd the office. A man in a brown pinstripe suit sits on a couch across from the reception desk, deep in conversation with a man in a New York Yankees sweatshirt. Erik tosses the briefcase on the glass-topped coffee table and opens it, retrieving the camera from its foam casing. He finds Raven in the second room he checks. She is a petite woman in her late fifties with graying hair piled up in a beehive and a blue polyester dress. 

“You start with that pile,” Raven says, pointing. 

Erik starts snapping photos of documents. A few of them are in Russian, which Erik thinks is odd since Moira had said the Russians were stealing American information, not vice versa. Several of the documents are submarine schematics. The maps are a mix of Soviet coastlines and the Caribbean, but no maps of American naval yards. After photographing the document, he turns it facedown in a separate pile. The table is small, and Raven uses half of it, so Erik’s pile of photographed documents is in front of a man who is apparently buying a house today; he’s already signed a Trust Deed. He’s a big guy, and the title officer across the table isn’t any smaller. The wife sits next to him, and there are a couple of other men in the room too, maybe clerks. It unnerves Erik to be working in a room full of people turned to statues by Charles’ power. Erik imagines that if Raven weren’t edgy about it too, she would be complaining about how boring this is. There is a muffled thump from somewhere under their feet. The two of them exchange glances, and then get back to work.

There are two more briefcases on the floor by the filing cabinet. That’s sloppy of them, actually. Whoever dropped off the documents should have left with an empty briefcase. Arriving with a briefcase and leaving without one announces to anyone watching that this place is a document drop. If he can spot the sloppiness, why haven’t these people seen it?

Erik winds the film cartridge when he reaches the last frame. Raven is already on her second film cartridge. He pops the cartridge, then realizes his extra film is in the briefcase in the receptionist area.

“I’m going to get film,” Erik says.

Raven nods.

Erik steps out of the room, heading to the reception desk, his footfalls noiseless on the thick carpet. He hasn’t quite gotten to the end of the short hallway when the man in the New York Yankees sweatshirt stifles a sneeze, pressing a finger to his upper lip before returning to his frozen pose.

Erik stops.  _ Charles? _

No response.

_ Charles!  _

No response. 

_ CHARLES! _

No response. 

The man in the New York Yankees sweatshirt was turned three quarters of the way away from Erik, but the man in the brown pinstripe was looking right at him. He saw Erik see that stifled sneeze. They lock eyes for a split second, and then all hell breaks loose.

“Mystique! Tell Professor X we're aborting the mission!” Erik shouts, throwing caution to the wind as the frozen employees and clients pull guns and drop into defensive positions.

From the room where they’ve been photographing documents, Erik hears muffled thumps and grunts. Mystique has gotten her wish to kick people in the head, but he doesn’t have time to wait for her to finish amusing herself. He flings the door wide, waits for an opening, and grabs Mystique by the shoulders and hauls her out. 

Despite all the guns trained on them, no one is shooting. No one is even shouting at them to stop. Erik doesn’t take time to puzzle out what’s going on. He scoops up the briefcase and both cameras with his power, opens the door to the hallway and gets out of there.

“Ow! Let go of my arm!”

“What are you hearing from Professor X?” Erik asks, not letting go of her arm as he runs down the corridor towards the stairs, trailed by the floating cameras and briefcase.

“Nothing, I told him to get the hell out of my head once I was in the office,” Mystique replies.

Erik stops cold. “You weren’t in contact with him? You were supposed to stay in contact with him! He’s the reason we aren’t wearing wires! Now how are we supposed to let anyone know what just happened? Where is he?!” 

Mystique yanks Erik back into motion and Erik opens the door to the stairwell. He is furious with Raven for dropping contact with Charles, and sick at the implications of an entire office full of people pretending to be frozen in place. None of those people tried to capture or kill Erik or Raven, and that can only mean one thing. Erik can’t think that particular thought just yet, but he knows it’s coming at him like a freight train.

“You head down to the street. Find the van and tell someone about the dumbshit thing you just did. I’m going to go look for Charles,” Erik says, shoving Mystique none too gently to keep going down the stairs, piling the briefcase and cameras on her, while Erik bursts through the door into the third floor. 

A conference room two floors below the title company office is Charles’ last known location. Erik reaches out with his power, searching for anything that might identify Charles or the CIA handlers. Is Moira with Charles? She’d been wearing silver earrings with a stainless steel clasp. That would be more unique than the belt buckles and watches on the other agents. Or did she stay down in the van? 

It turns out Erik doesn’t need any precise methods for finding the conference room. Once he gets out of the stairwell, he follows the sound of the alarms, pushing against the crowd that streams towards the stairwell to evacuate.

“Other way, man!” someone shouts at him.

Erik pushes past him until he sees the hole blown in the wall of Rogers & Buchanan, Attorneys at Law. The wiring is sparking, plaster hangs from the rough edges and the two-by-four frames look chewed off.

“Tornadoes don’t happen indoors! Are you drunk?” he hears someone insist.

Erik shoulders aside a couple of men who try to block his way and ducks through the hole. The tornado upended the entire room, splintering the furniture and throwing papers all over. Fisher is collapsed on the floor, and Erik yanks him up by his bulletproof vest. “You’d better tell me Professor X was safely evacuated before any of this shit hit the fan.”

“He was evacuated, but he went in a puff of red smoke,” Fisher says, “and it wasn’t one of our guys, it was one of you freaks.”

Erik growls, the bulletproof vest starting to vibrate and press against Fisher until he gasps. 

“We’re not set up for this shit! I can protect an asset, but not against shit like that. No way that was my fault.” He pulls his gun and cocks it, aiming at Erik. “Let go of my vest.”

Erik yanks the gun out of his hand, sending it spinning through the air. At an exclamation behind him, and Erik turns to see several people crowding around and watching the confrontation. He withdraws his powers from Fisher. Getting mixed up in a confrontation like this won’t help him find Charles. “Your partner can stay and answer questions. You’re coming with me.” Pulling on the bulletproof vest again, Erik strides back through the gaping hole in the wall, the crowd melting away before him as he tows Fisher out of the room behind him.

Down on the street, Erik can't get any information from Moira, who is shouting into a handheld radio. The noise and crowds of police cars and ambulances saturate the street. There are too many people, and the only person who actually matters is missing. He’s been gone full minutes now, and it doesn’t look like anyone is going to pop in and say he’s been found. Charles is  _ gone _ and Erik hadn’t even noticed when the sense of the man in his mind disappeared. Erik should have been holding onto Charles’ consciousness with every breath, gripping the man so tightly that the second he’d felt surprised by something, Erik would have known about it. Erik would have opened a hole in the fifth floor by the building’s metal skeleton and dropped straight down into that conference room and prevented Charles from disappearing into a puff of  _ red smoke. _

Raven shoves Erik hard, breaking his train of thought. “Your temper tantrum isn’t helping anything.”

Erik glares at her, then smooths out the cars that are crumpling under the force of his anger and desperation. 

“Where is he?” Erik demands of Moira. “The whole thing was a trap. How could you not see it was a trap?” How had Erik not seen it was a trap?

Moira shakes her head, her face too calm and pale. “We’ve got agents out combing the streets already. We’ll put roadblocks in place.”

“Like any of that is going to find  _ red smoke? _ ” Erik yells. “Shaw has him. You know it was Shaw. It was that teleporter and his red smoke that killed all those agents when they destroyed Cerebro! There were tornadoes, Moira! Shaw’s goon specializes in tornadoes!”

“We’re looking, Magneto,” Moira says, and has the audacity to sound calm and in control. “You’re going to have to give us time.”

“Time?! Do you know what Shaw is going to do to him!” This is the freight train thought he’s been avoiding. Erik knows exactly what Shaw will do to Charles - experiments, threats and blackmail, psychological coercion that leaves your mind tied in knots. How much worse would that be for a telepath? Charles would be more helpless than Erik had ever been, because Erik knows Shaw wouldn’t have taken Charles if he hadn’t already had a way to neutralize Charles’ power. The fear turns into murderous rage.

Muhammad Ali punches Erik in the face. The blow knocks him to the ground, and he comes up ready to fight. Muhammad Ali morphs back into Raven. “Get yourself together. Put the cars down, Magneto!”

Erik drops all the metal he's levitating, and a series of crashes echoes up and down the street. “Your brother is missing, and the reason nobody noticed for so long is because you wouldn’t let him into your head!” He usually likes Raven, as much as he likes anyone who isn’t Charles, but at this moment, he would gladly have strangled her, if not for the knowledge that Charles would disapprove.

“Fisher radioed it in. Think about it instead of having a meltdown, would you?”

“Get in the van. We’re leaving,” Moira orders them. “Magneto, don’t damage the vehicle.”

Erik slams the door much harder than necessary, using muscles instead of his power. The CIA won’t be able to find Charles. They will look for him using human methods. Agents like Fisher won’t really care if they find him or not. Erik will have to find him. He’ll ride with them back to the mansion, get what he needs, and leave.

“You can’t leave us,” Raven says as if she is the mind reader, wearing her peaches and cream skin and a floral dress, looking so normal that it infuriates Erik. She should have morphed into a mourning wraith, wailing in hopeless despair that would give some release to Erik’s building fear. These past months, Charles has awoken something in Erik that he’d thought was gone forever, something that is too fragile and new to survive without him. Without Charles, Erik will lose what Charles has created in him. 

Erik doesn’t answer Raven because his decision isn’t up for discussion. He never should have turned the search for Shaw over to humans. They can’t find him, and they’ve lost Charles in the effort. The clawing need that pulled Erik after a submarine now tethers him to Charles; but there is no one to stop him this time.

“The humans will take over. If both of you are gone, the humans will take over,” Raven says, and there is just the tiniest tremor in her voice.

Erik wants to lash out at her that she should have thought of that before she broke contact with Charles, but these past months with Charles have given him the ability to consider the fears of others once in a while. Raven’s brother is gone. If Erik leaves too, their entire band will be co-opted by the CIA, and Raven will get the blame for all of it from their small mutant band. The hell of it is that Erik isn’t even really the second in command. But he's old enough and stubborn enough to keep the mutants out of human control, these young mutants he and Charles so conveniently rounded up for the humans to study and exploit if he and Charles aren’t around to keep things civilized.

“Charles would want you to stay and help us,” Raven whispers.

“Shut up,” Erik grinds out behind clenched teeth, furious that she's right. It appears that Charles is reaching out to stop him again after all. He's never lost an argument because he loves someone before; it unnerves him, and Moira has to turn around and yell at him to let go of the van so the driver can keep them on the road. 


	3. Memory

About three weeks after their small group of mutants arrived at the Xavier mansion, Erik found Charles asleep in the library. He’d been looking for another book on metallurgy after finishing the first one Charles had assigned him to read; Charles had gotten bossy about insisting he understand the science behind his power rather than just feeling it hum in his blood and respond to his wishes. Erik was not yet ready to be gracious about the fact that Charles had been right to insist. The science of metals was so interesting he’d already finished the first book, so he was prowling the stacks in search of more on his own. Instead of a book, he found Charles, several throw pillows, a stack of books on the floor and a lap blanket pulled so far up to his chin that it left his bare feet exposed. 

Bemused at the unfamiliar emotions tugging at him at the sight of Charles’ face softened with sleep, lips slightly parted, Erik just stood there. He looked different, without that cocky assurance that he was right about everything and just needed to wait patiently until everyone else caught up to him. Erik liked Charles as much as he’d ever liked anyone, but the man was arrogant; he was nice about it, but his arrogance was starting to rub Erik the wrong way. 

In their weeks together gathering their mutant band, Erik had thought there were times when Charles was coming around to his way of thinking, and diluting that unfailing optimism with a dose of reality. Then he would find that Charles was only seeking to understand Erik’s point of view in an effort to change Erik’s mind. Charles always thought he was right. It infuriated Erik, not least because Charles’ opinion mattered to him, more than he’d ever allowed anyone to matter.

Sleeping Charles didn’t have an agenda about mutant-human cooperation, or another assignment to give out, or even that cocky reassurance that he understood Erik because he dipped into his head when he pulled Erik out of the ocean. Charles may know everything about him, but Erik didn’t believe Charles understood him, whatever Charles said about it.

Bemused, Erik stared at him, an awkwardness both tight and warm filling his chest,  wondering what it would be like to talk to Charles if he dropped all of his arrogant attitudes and professorial posturing. 

“I don’t think of it as arrogance, you know. It’s confidence,” Charles said. Then he stretched and opened his eyes.

“Get out of my head,” Erik replied reflexively, seating himself in an overstuffed armchair across from Charles.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It takes a second after I wake up to get my mental shields back in place, and you were thinking rather loudly. I don’t usually wake up to someone watching me so intently,” Charles replied, with just a touch of acerbity. 

“What’s that really like?” 

“Waking up to you?” Charles asked lightly, and Erik’s thoughts took a very unexpected turn that he cut off immediately.

“No, having to be on guard every minute. No one likes you in their head,” Erik said bluntly, lashing out a bit to push away both Charles and the unwelcome feelings Erik was having right now.

Charles rubbed his eyes with his fists. His face looked as unguarded as it had been when he was asleep when he answered, “Difficult, really. I’ve had to get used to the fact that no one ever really relaxes when I’m around because they’re afraid of me on some level. It’s why I try so hard to be likable in every other way. I’m over-compensating, I’m sure.”

The answer was so honest that it took Erik off-guard.

“I’m going to tell you something that I’ve only just realized these past few months while we’ve been arguing about whether or not mutants and humans can ever get along and live peaceably side by side. For me, the debate is personal on a level that I don’t think applies to you,” Charles said. And while he sounded professorial again, he looked nervous. Erik had never seen Charles look nervous or unsure.

“Go ahead,” Erik says, leaning back in the armchair and gathering up his arguments.

“The reason for all this tension between us is fear, yeah? Humans are afraid of what mutants can do, and mutants are afraid that because of that fear, they’ll be locked up, experimented on and treated badly. Would you agree?”

Charles was like this in discussions. He would make a point, then ask if you agreed with him. By the end of the argument, you’d found that you agreed with all of his interim points and then he couldn’t understand why you still disagreed with his conclusion. But Erik knew if he didn’t agree, Charles would never get past this first point and he wanted to know why Charles thought this debate was more personal to him than to Erik, who had been through many more terrible experiences than Charles had. Besides, Charles was right, it was all about fear.

“Yes, agreed,” Erik conceded.

“Everyone is afraid of me, Erik, mutants or humans. If we start splintering our society based on fear, then we’ll not just split apart mutants from the humans, but within the mutant group, the mutants that scare other mutants will be further isolated. Telepaths will be the ones who have to register and be rounded up. Not even other mutants like telepaths. We have to all learn to overcome fear and live together, so I can be part of society too,” Charles says.

Erik just stared at him. He hated it when Charles was right and Erik wanted to argue with him anyway.  _ No, _ Erik wanted to say,  _ you shouldn’t feel like people are afraid of your mutation, or would dislike you because of it. _ But he couldn’t say something like that because he didn’t believe it himself. He resented knowing that Charles could dip into his head, even if he didn’t do it. Erik hated feeling exposed or vulnerable to anyone.

“People are afraid of being known too well. People, mutant or human, want to control the image they present to others. It would terrify anyone to know that I can get behind that image. That’s the threat I present. If people only have to live near people who don’t frighten them, then I’ll be the first one to end up in solitary confinement.”

“Why don’t you just get in our heads and fix that? Surely someone of your abilities could erase that fear. You’re the only one on the planet who doesn’t need to worry about being likable, since you can just make us all like you whether we want to or not,” Erik said, still uncomfortable with Charles showing off this vulnerable side. The arrogant professor was easier to deal with than this young man who was afraid of rejection.

“Would you want friends who only liked you because you forced them to?” Charles asked quietly. He pressed his lips together and looked Erik in the eye. 

Erik thought that through, and realized what this insecurity said about Charles. “My friend,” and he used the word deliberately, “you have revealed yourself to be one of the very few people on this planet who can be trusted enough to be a telepath. There are plenty of people who are willing to force people into friendship, or servitude rather. We call them totalitarian dictators, tyrants, bullies. There are vast swaths of both humanity and mutants who don’t care about the free will of those around them. And then there is you. The fact that you want genuine friends speaks highly of your character, and I would be honored to be one of those friends. ”

Charles huffed out a laugh and bit his bottom lip, glancing at Erik and then away. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was rough.

Erik gave an awkward half-smile. He’d never made someone happy before. It wasn’t an unpleasant experience.

“And now you know, don’t you?” Charles said, standing to fold up the blanket.

“Know what?” Erik asked.

“The answer to the question you were wondering about when I woke up -- what it would be like to talk to me if I stopped being the arrogant professor.” Charles tossed the folded blanket over the back of the couch and bent to pick up the books stacked on the floor.

Erik picked up a couple of books that had fallen off the stack and handed them to Charles. “It made me nervous at first, and then I liked it.”

That wrung a laugh out of Charles. “My friend, that’s exactly how I felt!”

 

* * *

 

It was more than being uneasy, Erik had the certain knowledge that someone wanted to hurt him and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. The feeling set him on edge, and he was prowling around in frustration, trying to stay calm enough to avoid notice but knowing that underneath the calm, fear was seething like a pressure cooker. Erik’s agitated wanderings eventually took him to the library, where he found Charles asleep for the second time in three days. He woke him up and noticed that all of his fear and tension evaporated as soon as Charles opened his eyes. Curious.

“What are you doing? You know Moira’s coming at 2:00. You lectured all of us on how professional and respectful we have to behave. And you go take a nap? You’re going to be late.” Erik’s tone was halfway between chiding and teasing. 

“Yes, of course, sorry. Is she already here?” Charles asked, standing up before he was fully awake and then sitting down again suddenly.

“No, you’ve got a few minutes, and for the right price, I won’t tell anyone I found you slacking off again,” Erik said.

“If we’re friends, you shouldn’t threaten to blackmail me,” Charles replied.

“I’ve never had a friend before, so I’m very bad at it,” Erik pointed out.

“I shall add friendship lessons to your curriculum,” Charles replied with a smile.

Erik smiled back. They both stayed there for a minute, smiling foolishly at each other, and then walked to the south drawing room where the group was gathering for Moira’s latest debriefing.

These debriefing sessions seemed to be as much about Moira gathering information on their training activities as passing on information about the search for Shaw. Erik couldn’t help feeling that he’d gotten trapped in a holding pattern. He alternated between being frustrated, and seeing the value of what Charles was doing. All of them had better control of their powers, Erik included, and the skills were spilling over into the group, banding them together in spite of the occasional conflict when someone protested being pushed off a satellite dish or other nitpicky complaints like that.

Moira’s update mainly consisted of informing them that the CIA had discovered more places where they hadn’t found Shaw. Then Charles described the progress the children were making in learning to control and use their powers. He exaggerated Alex’s control - the boy was still launching plasma hoops in every direction except the intended one, and said Hank’s search for a ‘cure’ for mutantism seemed to have hit a dead-end. Erik was glad to hear it, and then wondered if Charles were being entirely truthful. While Erik hoped Hank’s quest would dead-end in spectacular fashion, he also hoped Charles was fudging the truth because that would mean Charles was beginning to take some of Erik’s concerns seriously rather than goodheartedly trusting that all humans would have their best interests at heart. If Hank was still working on that infernal cure, the humans never needed to know about it.

Later that evening, after dinner, Erik set up the chess game. Charles was in poor form, yawning frequently, and it didn’t take as long as it should have for Erik to reach checkmate. Charles tipped over his king and conceded the game.

“I made that a swift kill out of friendship,” Erik said.

“Yes, I do need to start you on friendship lessons immediately.”

“It’s only 9:00 o’clock. You can go to bed early, and not need to nap in the library tomorrow.”

Charles wouldn’t meet his eyes. “There were some journal articles I haven’t had a chance to read yet. I’m a bit of a night owl, to be honest.”

“Journal articles? Not even a night owl could stay awake for academic journal articles. And you’re not a very good night owl if staying up late means you have to sleep in the afternoon.”

Charles fidgeted with the chess pieces and didn’t answer.

“I wonder what would happen if you told me what was really wrong,” Erik said casually. 

“Why must something be wrong, my friend?” Charles asked, just as casually.

“Because you were dreaming when I found you in the library earlier today. You don’t have those mental shields up when you’re asleep. I know what fear feels like, especially when it’s compounded with helplessness. There’s really nothing worse than inevitability. You know how much it’s going to hurt, and you can’t get away from it, and you wish you could stop thinking about it because the anticipation is like living through it four or five extra times, and you’re angry you don’t even have that much control, and so you . . .”

“Stop it! Just shut up!” Charles shouted at him. His cheeks were pale, making his lips look that much redder in contrast.

Erik leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at Charles while Charles tried to look at anything else in the room other than Erik. “If you stay up late enough, does it keep the nightmares away?”

“No, but it delays them.”

“It must be terrible for a telepath to be afraid of something inside his own head.”

“My friend, I don’t mean to drag you into my troubles. You’ve enough of your own,” Charles said, wiping his hands on his trousers and then busying himself with returning the chess pieces to their positions.

“Perhaps my first friendship lesson could be whether or not friends help each other with their troubles,” Erik replied, still watching Charles refuse to look at him. “Or were these lessons to be entirely theoretical? I seem to remember you emphasizing the importance of labs, experiments and real-world applications. I don’t think that principle applies only to biology.”

Erik watched the thoughts flit across Charles’ features, the twitch of his cheeks, the tightening in his jaw, the wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows. Then, when he came to a decision, all of that smoothed out with a sigh, and Charles started to talk.

“If you must know, my father died when I was twelve. My mother remarried a man named Kurt Marko, who had a son named Cain who was a few years older than I was. Cain disliked me, rather intensely, as a matter of fact. He used to hit me. Beatings. Kurt knew about it, and did nothing to stop it. Kurt didn’t like me either. He didn’t hit me, but he would . . . say unkind things. My mother drank too much to notice or care what was going on. Part of the reason I started college at sixteen was to get away from this house. I’ve not been back since then. I thought I’d left the past in the past, but it turns out coming back to this place has raked up some unpleasant associations and memories. I do my best to ignore them, but then they come out in dreams. There, now you know.” After delivering this speech while intently studying a piece of lint on his trousers, Charles raised defiant eyes to Erik.

“Raven?” Erik asked.

“I could protect her. I could pick out Cain’s intentions from his mind and warn her in time to hide. Sometimes I would deliberately provoke Cain to keep his attention away from Raven and on me. She could always turn into someone else and avoid him,” Charles said.

Erik wondered if Charles’ aversion to Raven’s natural form was an extension of his need to protect and hide her from Cain. 

“I am sorry for your pain and your fear,” Erik said softly, and he was. Erik had spent so many years focused on his own need for revenge that he rarely noticed any suffering in those around him. Quite honestly, Charles’ story was nowhere near as dramatic as Erik’s. Erik would have expected that to mean he would be dismissive of Charles. But he had felt the fear and grief in Charles’ dream this afternoon. Perhaps dramatic circumstances weren’t necessary for grief to shatter one’s happiness and for fear to curl up like a snake in one’s head.

“Thank you,” Charles said. He blinked fast. That sheen of tears made the blue of Charles’ eyes almost incandescently bright.

“What can I do to help?” Erik asked.

“There isn’t anything that can change the past,” Charles replied. “Thank you for offering though.”

“Are you turning down my help?” 

“I can’t think of anything that would help,” Charles clarified.

“Then, if I’m to be your friend, I’ll have to think of something on my own,” Erik mused.

“It appears that in this subject, you are the professor, and I am your pupil,” Charles said with a smile.

Erik had won a smile from him. He wondered if Charles was projecting his happiness, or if Erik’s own happiness was now connected to Charles’ happiness in some way. What a curious notion.

“Are your mental shields in place, Charles?”

“Yes, of course they are.”

“Do you need to strengthen your mental shields before you can be touched?”

Charles’ eyebrows went up in surprise. “Yes, physical contact is always more intense for my telepathy.”

“Go ahead, then,” Erik said, stepping over to Charles and offering him his hand. “Reinforce your shields.”

After a second, Charles took Erik’s hand and Erik pulled him to his feet. Then he put an arm around Charles waist and drew him close, his other arm going around his shoulders. Charles’ hands paused in mid-air, and then tentatively settled on Erik’s waist. In another moment, Charles’ cheek was resting lightly on his shoulder and Erik could feel the warmth of Charles’ breath against his neck. He trusted that Charles had his shields strongly reinforced, because he wasn’t sure he wanted Charles to know exactly what this embrace was doing to him. Erik felt like his life was cracking open, and something he’d buried very long ago was reaching out into a feeling that resembled sunshine.

“Is this helping?” Erik whispered. 

“Yes, my friend.”

Erik held Charles another long minute, the hand holding Charles’ shoulder moving of its own accord to stroke that floppy, soft hair at the nape of Charles’ neck. Charles moved a few centimeters closer to him with the caress, Erik’s sleek turtleneck pressing lightly against Charles’ thick cardigan. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Charles stepped back. “I think I’ll go to bed after all.” His eyes weren’t darting all over the room anymore. He held Erik’s gaze warmly.

“Good. Get some sleep.” Erik could tell he was smiling. It was something that had happened to him a lot more frequently since he met Charles.

Charles nodded and began to walk away.

“Charles?”

Charles stopped and turned back to Erik.

“While I don’t want you in my head all the time, if you need anything, even if it’s just another hug,” Erik tapped his temple, “that would be fine.”

Charles smiled, ducked his head in pleased self-consciousness, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Thank you. I may take you up on that.”

“I hope you do,” Erik said.

* * *

 

The next evening, Erik wondered if he should find Charles before going to bed. It turned out Charles was deep in discussion with Hank about the chemical properties of the cure that Erik disapproved of so much, so he huffed out his displeasure and left. After he intimidated Sean into dropping a mug of juice, not really on purpose, he gave up and went to bed, more irritated than he wanted to be. 

Over the next few days, they stole a few private minutes for brief conversations about Charles’ nightmares, enough to confirm to Erik that Charles needed him on some level, but not enough for Erik to sort out what was happening between them, or if anything was happening at all. When they were around other people, the dynamic between them remained unchanged. Charles was the professor, and Erik was a gruff collaborator, older and more worldly than Charles, and so able to push his way into having a say in running this fledgling school, while still learning from Charles. Yet there was this more vulnerable facet to their relationship growing privately where it could remain safe and protected. Perhaps it would come out in the open some day, but for now it was fragile.

Charles was gone for a couple of days at CIA headquarters with Hank. He brought Moira back with him, and the entire group of them had several meetings and late night discussions about trying to rebuild Cerebro. He didn’t get the chance to speak to Charles privately, but he also didn’t find him napping in the library despite checking regularly, so he assumed Charles was fine. It disappointed him, though he reminded himself he wasn’t a very good friend if he was hoping Charles would have terrible nightmares.

Erik was in the sitting room watching the late news with Armando and Angel when there was a brush against his consciousness and a soft,  _ Erik? _

_ Here, Charles, I’m here. Can you hear me? _

_ Yes. I’m sorry to trouble you. _

_ It’s no trouble. Where are you? _

_ My room. I could meet you in the library if you would prefer. _

_ Your room is fine. Just a moment. _

Erik got up and left. Armando called out, “good night” so Erik returned the pleasantry before striding off. The sense of Charles in his head was gone, and Erik was suddenly curious if he could establish the connection from his end.  _ Charles? _ There was no reply. He wondered if Charles could have heard him if he’d been deliberately listening for him, or if there was a way to establish a mental link with Erik and keep the channel open so Erik could initiate contact after a period of silence. He frowned thoughtfully. Charles had all of them working on improving their control over their mutations, measuring their abilities, exercising weak points and discussing possibilities with Moira and the other CIA handlers, but no one was working out the abilities and limits of Charles’ mutation. They should find out Charles’ range, especially since Cerebro had been destroyed. How far away could he establish contact? How far away could he freeze someone in place? Could he link, say, Erik’s mind to Armando’s like a telephone wire so Erik could hear Armando down the path of Charles’ telepathy, or would he have to echo messages from Erik to Armando? He would have to bring up the matter with Charles. 

Not tonight, though.

Erik tapped on Charles’ door.

_ Come in. _

Charles’ room wasn’t any bigger than the one Erik was using. That mildly surprised him; Erik had assumed Charles would have the master bedroom. There was room for a bookshelf, dresser and a queen-size bed. Charles had an overstuffed armchair next to the fireplace. There were closed doors that may have been closets or a bathroom. 

Charles was leaning against the bookshelf, wearing blue striped pajamas with buttons. He wasn’t the arrogant professor right now, and Erik smiled fondly.

An answering smile flitted across Charles’ lips. “Is it alright, then?”

“I told you already. It’s fine,” Erik replied. 

Then, before the situation could get awkward, he crossed the room and held out a hand to Charles. Charles took it, and Erik pulled him in snugly, pressing him closer than last time and resting his cheek against Charles’ forehead. A flash of  _ warm-happy-safe _ passed across his mind and disappeared, and Charles jerked back.

“I’m sorry, Erik, I slipped. I didn’t mean to.”

Erik was startled, and couldn’t pretend otherwise, but not for the reason it appeared Charles was worrying about. “Were those your feelings? Is that how you feel right now?”

“Yes,” Charles said in a low voice.

“Does the slip run both ways? Could you feel what I was feeling too?”

Charles wouldn’t look at him, and his fingertips on Erik’s shoulders were so tentative that Erik almost couldn’t feel them at all. “I’m sorry. Yes, I could feel what you were feeling too.”

“What was it?” Erik asked.

“Beg pardon? You’re asking me to tell you what you’re feeling?”

Erik gently pulled on his waist until he had Charles in his embrace again. “I doubt this will surprise you, but I don’t have much experience with feelings other than rage and revenge. You said once you sensed more in me than pain and anger, and I thought you were just being nice. But lately, I’ve wondered if you might be right. I think,” Erik paused, “I think sometimes I’m happy now too. Is that what you felt?”

Charles was giving him a curious look and a wry smile. “Well, yes, I did sense some happiness. And you’re pleased I asked you for help tonight; you like the fact that I need you.”

“I do?” Erik asked. “Yes, I think you’re right. I do like the fact that you need me.” He thought about that for a second. “I don’t think anyone has ever needed me before. It’s a little strange, but not unpleasant.”

Charles shook with quiet laughter, and Erik ruffled his hair. He liked the feeling of Charles’ warm body relaxing in his arms too. 

After a moment, Charles moved back. “I don’t mean to keep you. You need your sleep too.”

“Yes,” Erik agreed reluctantly, but he didn’t move away. “Would you call for me if you had a nightmare?”

Charles nodded.

“Good night, then,” Erik said, and left, again worrying that he was a bad friend because he was hoping Charles would have a nightmare. Then he clarified it for himself - he didn’t want Charles to have a nightmare, he wanted Charles to call for him. That soothed his conscience for a couple of minutes until the implications of that sank in.

* * *

It seemed that Charles only needed about one hug per week. That was too bad, because Erik was perfectly willing to hug him more often, though ‘hug’ might not be the best word for what they were doing anymore. He was holding Charles, embracing him, pressing him close and trying to memorize the feel of him, craving Charles’ hands on his shoulders and back, wishing those hands would caress his face or wind into his hair. He didn’t want to make things awkward between them, though. Charles’ shields had never slipped again. Erik wished that he hadn’t warned Charles out of his head so assiduously, because he wouldn’t mind if Charles dropped his shields and their thoughts and emotions tangled together. He wanted Charles to tell him what he was feeling, so he could then explain what Erik was feeling.

One night, several months after their first hug, Erik turned his head to speak into Charles’ forehead, almost pressing his lips against him before he caught himself. “Charles.”

“Hmm?” 

The breathy noise shot a jolt of warmth down Erik’s body.

“Why aren’t we working on your telepathy the way we’re working on everyone else’s powers? We should be finding out your range - how far away can you communicate? How far away can you freeze people? How much concentration does it take for you to leave an open channel so someone can contact you? I’ve tried calling out to you mentally at times, just wondering if I could catch your attention, and you’ve never responded.” Erik had his hands locked together at Charles’ waist to keep him from winding into his hair.

Charles pulled back just a bit to have a conversation. Erik would have protested, but it did mean their lips were very close, especially when Erik slouched. “You’re right, of course. I’ve thought about it, but experimenting with my power would take a volunteer; I can’t practice on my own. Or rather, I believe I’ve done as much as I can on my own.”

“If I volunteered?”

“That would be . . . helpful,” Charles says, his mouth so close that Erik could feel his breath on his own lips. “But it would mean allowing me inside your head more often, and more deeply, and I thought you would be uncomfortable with that. I suspect that my range would be greater if I already have a deeper connection established.”

“If you’re going to spend more time inside my head, then there’s something you should know,” Erik said, and then he bent his head just a fraction to kiss him.

Charles’ shields slipped enough for Erik to feel a flash of  _ finally-yes-more _ and Erik took advantage of the gap to press some of his own thoughts and feelings into Charles’ mind while his hands slid up Charles’ back and into his hair. Charles’ hand pushed up Erik’s sleeve, clutching his bare shoulder and the other brushing Erik’s jawline. Kissing Charles set him on fire, and the first thing to burn down was his pretense that he could keep this casual and hidden. Charles would become his whole life.

Charles turned his head and broke the kiss with a gasp. “That’s a little overwhelming, you know.”

It’s just a kiss. It may have been the best kiss of his life, but it wasn’t overwhelming. That would come later - once Erik had Charles in bed, naked under his hands and mouth.

“I meant the thought that I’m going to become the focus of your life.”

Erik didn’t want to talk, but he felt Charles pull back both physically and mentally. He didn’t entirely let go, and Charles seemed content to stay within a loose embrace.

“Do you remember the question you asked that set all of this off? You asked what it would be like if I stopped being the arrogant professor. What I’ve wondered about you is what you would be like if you stopped being obsessed with revenge, if you looked past all of that pain and anger and saw how much more life can be, how much more you can be.”

“Then why didn’t you ask?” Erik’s said, his voice gravelly with desire. He brushed his cheek along Charles’ hair, wishing he would turn his head for another kiss.

“I didn’t think you knew the answer.”

“I know it now.”

Charles put his forehead on Erik’s collarbone, effectively keeping his mouth away from Erik. “Do you love with the same intensity that you hate?”

Of course when Charles told Erik what he was feeling, he would go right to ‘love’ and skip the interim steps such as getting fond of someone or liking them. Erik doesn’t do things by halves. “Find out.”

“I don’t want to be owned, Erik.”

“Would you allow me to own you?”

“No.”

“Question settled.”

Charles kissed him, then, fiercely and thoroughly. Erik opened his mouth and welcomed Charles’ ardor. Charles would not be owned because he would love Erik as possessively and completely as Erik loved him.  _ You’ll have to match what I feel for you. Keep us balanced.  _

_ I’ve never loved like this before. _

Erik felt both wonder and fear in Charles’ mind-tone. Erik fumbled with Charles’ buttons, slid his shirt off his shoulders and finally found out how far down the freckles go. He had to look closely in the dim light, and then it was easier to spread Charles out on the bed than to pretend they weren’t going to end up there anyway. Charles tolerated Erik’s examination for a moment before rolling out from under his hands to disentangle himself from the shirt hanging off his shoulders and reach for Erik’s clothes. Erik allowed himself to be undressed, more than a little nervous to yield to Charles when he had never yielded to anyone since he was old enough to fight.

_ This isn’t a fight, Erik. _

It was, though. The fight plunged into Erik’s pain and anger, his fear screaming warnings that trust and love end in betrayal and destruction. Revenge refused to abdicate to love. The growing connection with Charles threatened to derail Erik from his life’s purpose. This was not a casual dalliance to be indulged and tossed aside; Charles was pushing his way into Erik’s life. Suddenly, Erik feared that he would either hurt Charles, or Charles would change him more than he wanted to be changed. The intensity of his desire for Charles morphed into panic that he would be caught, tamed and broken. 

Erik pushed Charles away, snatched up his clothes and backed away towards the door. The only thing that stopped him from fleeing entirely was Charles’ inchoate mental cry that this was a risk for Charles too. If he left now, Charles might not dare let him back in.

“You have to say it,” Charles said, knees pulled up to his chest in a defensive posture.

“Just pull it out of my mind.”

“No. You have too many thoughts right now. You choose the one you want to say.”

“I’ve done as much as I can tonight, but I don’t want to leave.”

Charles unwrapped himself and put his own shirt back on. “Good enough.”

When Charles pulled the blankets back and shifted to the far side of the bed, Erik’s fear that Charles was a trap fought with the hope that he was safety instead. Unaccustomed to choosing hope over fear, Erik hesitated a long minute before he could accept Charles’ invitation and slip between the sheets with him. 

Charles found his hand under the blankets and threaded their fingers together. The touch brought an insight. If this had been only about sex, Erik wouldn’t have stopped. If they had remained the arrogant professor and the vengeful metalbender, the sex would have been nothing more than a physical encounter, easily consummated. But those facades had crumbled, leaving a vulnerable telepath who has been scarred by fear and a love-starved man still grieving his mother’s death.

It was the depth that rattled him so badly, and the answering depth in Charles that kept him here in spite of his fears. When deep calls unto deep, the pain twines with the love, weaving into a rope that is more than twice as strong as either pain or love could be on their own. The weave is hard, and a long time coming; this is only the beginning. Erik lay motionless, eyes open in the dark and looking at nothing, and wondered if the insight came from him or from Charles.

_ I think it came from us both. _

Yes. Because now there is a third being here too, the sum of him and Charles together. He hadn't known before that a relationship might take on a life of its own, and become more than the individuals involved, built between them like a bridge, anchored in them both, but not belonging entirely to either one. 

He should have known; after all, his relationship with his mother survived her death.

Three weeks later, Charles disappeared, and Erik found himself with another relationship balanced entirely on his shoulders.


	4. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannibalize _Wolverine_. Let’s say Team X happened during the Korean War rather than the Vietnam War. This story is not consistent with _Wolverine;_ I just picked out the parts I want to use.

It is Erik who tells the children that Charles has been taken. Raven flees to some corner of the grounds as soon as the van stops, not even going into the house. Moira and Fisher stay in the control center in the back of the van, still on the radio with headquarters. The children arrive from separate parts of the house. They would be offended if they knew that Erik thinks of them as children. They have struggled because of their powers and have an independence beyond their years because of that. But they are children because Charles thinks of them as such. Erik suspects this is because Charles wishes he could protect them as if they really were children. So the label is a lie. 

“Is the professor with Moira?” Hank asks. He’s come from the direction of the lab, and there is a suppressed excitement about him, as if he has something to tell the professor. 

There is no reason to delay the news out of some misguided sense of kindness, and Erik does not know how to be kind in any event. “Charles has been kidnapped. At least one of Shaw’s mutants was involved, so that’s likely who took him.”

“What the hell?” Sean says. 

“He’s gone,” Erik replies, keeping his face blank. His devastation is not something he will share. 

“He can’t be gone; what’re we going to do without him?” Alex asks. 

“Do you think we’re going to get him back?” It is Sean who asks.

“Don’t you even suggest otherwise,” Erik tells him. He doesn’t shout, but he can’t keep the threat out of his voice.

There is a feeling coming from the group that is so intense that Erik doesn’t have to be a telepath to sense it. Erik is devastated, but he’s older and has more perspective. He has survived loss before and he can do it again. He was too cynical before Charles found him to let Charles get under his skin the way he has connected with the children. Charles is the only person to tell them that they can learn to be who they were born to be. The children aren’t facing only the loss of Charles; they’re facing the loss of the promise that they can learn who they are and how to live with it. He’s teaching them how to handle the parts of themselves they don’t understand and don’t like. It is what a father should do for his children; perhaps Charles calls them children because of the role he wants to fill in their lives. 

“Of course we’ll get him back,” Alex insists. “We’ll go find him ourselves if the CIA can’t do it. Right, Erik? We aren’t going to wait around for the human government do it.”

It is one thing for Erik to bolt off alone, hellbent on another coldly violent quest to destroy and kill; it is another thing entirely to take these young people who would only come because they love Charles. They would depend on him; they would need him; he would be accountable to Charles for how he led them. He can’t do it. At every turn, Charles plucks his past life out of his hands. 

The words come from him reluctantly, but he says what he has to say. “Charles chose to work with the CIA. We won’t break that alliance.”

When Alex looks like he’s going to argue, Erik adds, “at least not for a few days.”

It may not be much, but it’s enough that Alex doesn’t say whatever he meant to say.

* * *

 

Despair sits next to Logan, draping thoughts of death around him like fog, the cold mist obscuring his vision. It doesn’t matter. He can't commit suicide even if he wants to, but he pictures dying, sinking into oblivion where he ceases to exist and this painful life ends. Unfortunately, he is a freak, and his body keeps saving his life whether he wants it saved or not. The despair is rather smug about the fact that Logan can’t get away. Logan adds his powerlessness over his own body to the reasons he hates his life.

The shriek of metal on metal pierces the fog. The locking mechanism on the strongbox is pulling to the side, and the heavy door swings inward. Logan waits, but no one comes through the open door. Going to investigate would mean getting up and caring about why the door had opened, and Logan doesn’t care. He stays where he is, crouching in the corner of the strongbox where he has been held captive for the last two months. Or maybe four months. Eight? Less than a year, and more than a few weeks. It doesn’t matter. Logan doesn’t have any way to track the days. The dim lighting recessed into the ceiling never varies, and they stopped feeding him a while back. He can’t starve to death, but he can get skinny and weak, and the hunger contributes to his apathy. 

They opened the door because they want some sort of reaction from him, and Logan refuses to give them the satisfaction. He should have killed Major Stryker when he’d first been captured rather than listening to him, but the habit of obedience to military leaders was more than a century old and could not be broken that easily. 

When opening the door didn't work, they use a piercing, pulsing sound to harass him into a reaction. Roaring in frustration, Logan puts his hands over his ears and stumbles to his feet. Getting away from the noise means going towards the door, where he discovers the transport cell they’d used with him before. Leaving the strongbox means entering the transport cell. It is made of the same material as the strongbox, adamantium, but is no bigger than a phone booth, without the toilet and mattress that are his only amenities in the strongbox. But there is food in the transport cell. Four packages of military MREs are in the corner, along with a gallon-size thermos. Through the fog, Logan has to decide whether or not he cares. Eating will give him energy, and he’s settled into this lassitude enough to become accustomed to it. Despair is potent inertia. The decibel level increases, and Logan enters the cell more to escape the noise than because he cares about the food and water. Once he’s inside, they slam the door of the transport cell shut behind him. 

Logan picks up the MRE as the transport cell begins to move. He doesn’t want the food, but his body does. As soon as he touches one, his body picks up all of them, and the thermos. The cell doesn’t travel more than twenty feet before it stops and the locking mechanism is unfastened. He stands up, holding all the food and the thermos. The door opens into another cell, about the same size as the one he just left, also equipped with a thin foam mattress and a toilet. The one difference is the pile of MREs in the far corner and the drinking tube fastened to the wall. Logan finds out his body’s will to eat and live is stronger than the despair.

In two bounds, Logan is out of the transport cell and counting the MREs as the cell door clangs shut behind him. Knowing he’s cooperated with them yet again, furious about the entire situation, Logan drops the MREs, springs those beautiful new adamantium claws out of his fists and slams them into a wall with a roar. When he’d done this in the strongbox, early in his captivity, his claws had jammed against the impenetrable wall, which was how he’d discovered the strongbox was lined with adamantium. This cell is not reinforced, and Logan is surprised when his adamantium claws cut through the metal wall with a harsh scrape. Curious now, wondering if Major Stryker has really been this stupid, Logan drags his claws through the metal until they stop at an adamantium barrier.

Working methodically, Logan punches his claws through the walls of his new cell in several locations, ripping open small sections of the wall. He discovers that this cell is built over an adamantium skeleton, but the walls between the bars can be cut. Logan cuts himself several windows, none of which are big enough to get anything but his arm through. Still, he can see out now. His cell is in a large room, with something that looks like control panels on one wall, and the strongbox cell across the room from him, door still open. The door into the larger room is shut. After looking around at as much as he can see, sniffing the air, and pressing an ear to the floor to listen for footsteps, Logan satisfies himself that the people who moved him to this cell have gone and left him alone again.

He leaves his new windows and returns to the food. 

~###~  


By holding his breath and lying with his entire body pressed against the floor along with his ear to search out the vibrations of footfalls, Logan decides there are less than ten people in the facility, much fewer than the group that had been here when he’d first arrived all those months ago. The numbers had dwindled by the time he’d agreed to that horrific infusion of adamantium, but there had still been a few dozen at least, enough to catch him after he’d erupted from the adamantium bath when he heard Major Stryker give the order to erase his memories. He’d been caught, but they couldn’t resume any sort of procedure without his cooperation; they’ve made him too strong for that. The situation has stalled in a stalemate of captivity, though Logan still has 130 years of memories inside his head. 

Through the floor, Logan hears footsteps approaching the room containing his cell and the strongbox. Three people, and one of them has strange footsteps. He gets to his feet as the locking mechanisms release and the door to the outer room slides to the side. Two men and a woman enter the room. Her high heels are the strange footsteps. 

One of the men is Major Stryker, the other is a shorter, skinnier man with a sharp, foxy face. The woman has sculpted blonde curls that spill onto her shoulders, an oval face with blue eyes and painted lips, and curves like Logan hasn’t seen in a very long time. Logan forgets to growl in anger at Stryker, too absorbed in watching the woman walk.

She glances over at him, contempt curling her lip. Then a shock inside his head sends him reeling away from the opening in the wall. 

From outside his cell, Logan hears Major Stryker laugh. “He’s more animal than human anymore.”

“Call it paybacks. You could enjoy it, Emma,” the fox-faced man suggests.

“I’m not going anywhere near that creature’s head,” Emma replies, her voice dripping with contempt.

Logan snorts softly. He doesn’t want this Emma to go near his head. Then again, maybe he should leave well enough alone.

He stays down and peers out a different window closer to the floor, where he can see the trio, but they would have to take a few steps and look closely to see him.

“We had a deal when I said you could use this place,” Major Stryker says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fox-face says. “Emma doesn’t have to do it. We’ll have the other one take care of it.”

“You’re damn right, you’ll have him do it. I told you I’m not going to be involved any more than what I’ve already done,” Emma replies, her voice sharp. 

There is a pause, and Major Stryker gives Fox-face a look Logan recognizes, the one that says discipline is breaking down.

Fox-face gives his head a brief shake, and Major Stryker backs off.

That’s weird. Which one of them is in charge here?

“So, show me your precautions. How are you going to keep him contained?” Major Stryker says instead.

The three of them go inside the strongbox, where Logan can’t hear as well, then people started bringing equipment into the room, which creates so much noise that Logan has no hope of hearing anything else. There is a hospital bed, followed by what looks like a stream of hospital equipment. There are IV racks, tubing, heart monitors, and other items that Logan recognizes from some of the experiments Major Stryker has done on him. He doesn’t recognize all of it. Many of the canisters and monitors are rolled into the strongbox, but several are left next to the door. Logan figures the strongbox is full. 

He feels both curiosity and pity - curiosity about what freak is even more powerful than he is, and pity for the poor freak who is now the focus of all the evil experiments this military base can conduct. It is the most he’s felt about anything since the despair joined him. He can still feel it there, out beyond the edges of the curiosity and pity, waiting to come back. This brief respite from the despair scrapes at all his raw edges and makes him regret feeling anything at all. At some point, despair has started to feel like safety, since it keeps the hope away.

~###~

No one has brought any more food since he’s been locked into this new cell, and Logan is wondering if he should start rationing his food packets instead of consuming 10,000 calories a day. With his body’s default mechanism of returning him to optimal health, he doesn’t even have to exercise; calories are automatically turned into muscle, since his body identifies that as good health. The cut-off pants are tight around his thighs; he doesn’t have a shirt, and his feet are bare. His shoulders are as big as they ever are, and the muscles in his legs and arms are aching to be used to full capacity. The most he can do in this cell is push-ups, squats and running in place. He wants to try picking up a car. It’s disconcerting to watch his body enthuse over food and activity, when all his mind wants to do is end all this pointless activity and find a way to stop existing.

The screech of the door lock ends his push-up count at 113 and he takes up his position at the lower window. The blonde woman’s strike at his mind has made him cautious. 

Only two people come in. One is Fox-face, wearing a ridiculous metal helmet that covers a fair amount of his pointed face. The other is a young man, or maybe a teenage boy, with wavy dark-brown hair. He weaves as he walks. Fox-face follows him, hands clamped around the young man’s biceps, steering him along. He moves slowly, as if he isn’t sure what his feet should be doing. Fox-face drags along an IV stand on wheels. The tubing from the IV feeds into the young man’s arm.

This is the freak so powerful that they readied the strongbox for him?

Since Emma isn’t with them, Logan shifts to a different window, where he has a better view. He studies the young man intently, wondering why he merits all the preparation.  _ Who are you, kid? _

The boy stops, and then his head slowly turns towards Logan. Even from across the room, Logan sees that his eyes are blue. Then there is a feeling, diffuse, spreading out like water rather than something aimed specifically at Logan, and his mind dips into it, examines it, and then starts drinking it in desperately, trying to suck that feeling in before it can disappear and leave him dying again.  _ More! I need more! _ Of its own accord, Logan’s arm thrusts out of a window, straining towards that boy, ignoring the blood that runs down his side before his body can heal where the jagged metal edges gash his arm.

Fox-face notices him then. The helmet obscures his expression, but he gives the young man a shake and hurries him along to the door of the strongbox, pushing him inside and clanging the door shut behind them. Within a few moments, the feeling cuts off, leaving Logan with hands pressed against the walls of his prison, gasping like the feeling had been oxygen and he would suffocate from the lack of it. For the first time in a year, Logan doesn’t feel separate from himself, like his body is an enemy. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be whole.

It isn’t just the feeling, but the memory it brings with it. A few years ago, Logan sank his heart and hopes into a woman. Kayla Silverfox loved him, calmed the nightmares, and made him dream of a future of peace and contentment. Something as elusive as happiness had been within his reach, and then Kayla changed her mind. She kept saying things that didn’t make any sense, like how it was for the best that they split up and it was all to protect him, insisting she loved him more than she’d thought possible and that’s why she couldn’t do this anymore. What the hell kind of sense did that make? She even said he’d hate her if he knew the truth. He’d wondered if she’d gone crazy to say something like that, but nothing he said could bring her back to him and the future they’d planned together. 

It took a few months to accept that Kayla meant what she said. The fact that she disappeared entirely helped drive the point into his stupid head. That was when the despair took over, and he’d drifted around a series of bars in different towns, careful to keep moving, and trying to drown his sorrows by drinking every dollar he won cage-fighting. Logan’s freak ability meant he couldn’t get drunk enough to hurt himself, but he could fuzz the edges of his despair.

He’d been sitting in one of those nameless bars, chasing the fuzzy edge of drunkenness, when a couple of men arrived. They’d introduced themselves, Logan immediately forgetting their names, and Logan had told them to go fuck themselves. The alcohol that fogged his brain made him slow, and it wasn’t until the men had left that he realized the smaller man had flooded his mind with the same sort of hope and peace that he’d felt when he and Kayla had been making plans together. Did they know Kayla? Would they know where Logan could find her? 

Logan had run out after them, in time to see them get into a 1959 Ford Fairlane and drive off. He’d spent the next several weeks looking for them, uselessly. He didn’t remember their names, hadn’t even gotten a good look at them. But the wisp of hope and peace the man had left behind fueled his search for longer than it should have.

Major Stryker found him just as it burned out, leaving him even lower than when Kayla had abandoned him. “You don’t have a life outside the military, Logan.”

“I’m done with killing,” Logan had says, too apathetic to sound insistent even to himself.

“What else are you going to do?” Major Stryker asked.

Logan hadn’t been able to come up with an answer. Hope kept walking away from him, and there didn’t seem to be any good reason  _ not _ to go with Major Stryker. Even the experiments he proposed sounded better than sitting in a bar and drinking, so Logan agreed. Really, he had to admit he liked these new claws, and the feeling of power in this enhanced skeleton, now that the memory of that overwhelming pain had faded. 

Major Stryker’s betrayal didn’t surprise him. It seems about right, actually. No one wants him for anything but a killing machine, and he would be more effective without his memories. The military man in him even admires Major Stryker’s planning, or at least acknowledges it. He wanted no part of it, still doesn’t, but he can see what Major Stryker is trying to do. He doesn’t want to kill anymore, though, or at least not just to follow orders. He imagines he would be just fine with killing for a cause that he chose, or to protect someone who mattered to him.

Which means that he will kill anyone he has to in order to protect that boy who just walked past, dragging hope and peace with him into the strongbox prison. 


	5. Gone

Hank is self-aware enough to know that part of his attraction to Raven is because she wants to accept herself. Hank is embarrassed by his mutation; his longing for Raven is, at times, a longing to believe that his feet aren’t something he should hide. At least it is only his feet that look so strange.

Raven is blue today. It takes concentration and energy to change her appearance, and she hasn’t cared enough since Charles disappeared yesterday. Angel says that she’s taking advantage of the fact that Charles can’t boss her around. But two minutes with Raven is enough to disabuse anyone of the notion that Raven is rebelling. She’s so despondent even her voice is blue.

She is listening to him, though, as Hank tells her he has discovered the amino acid sequencing in her cells, and is mapping them against a control normal (Moira provided a blood sample). “Once I can see where the genetic switches flipped, I can teach the cell how to flip the switch back. Essentially, it doesn’t cure the mutation like it’s a disease, it turns it off. The mutation is still there, but inactive.”

“Could you turn it back on?” Raven asks idly. She only asks him a question when his scientific jargon lapses into something she can understand, like turning switches on and off.

“I don’t know. Cells are harder to persuade than metal, or other inanimate objects,” Hank replies. 

Raven snorts. “Too bad we don’t have someone like Erik who can do to cells what he does to metal.”

“We do, actually. It’s you. And since cells are trickier to control than metal, that makes you more powerful than he is.”

“Huh.” Raven refuses to be interested.

Hank turns off the microscope light. “We’ll get him back, you know. The entire CIA is looking for him.”

That gets half a smile. Erik has put the fear of . . . Erik . . . into the CIA. Moira has reported twice with updates, real updates, not just ‘stay posted and we’ll get back to you when we feel like telling you something’ updates. Hank suspects the Moira has leveled with her bosses about the extent of Erik’s power and the damage that could occur if he were to go rogue. The CIA is looking for Charles for his own sake, and also to keep Erik from destroying the world. 

“Why don’t you hate me?” Raven asks in a low voice.

Hank’s head jerks up, his palms go icy and start to sweat. “I could never hate you,” he pauses and wonders how to phrase his feelings for Raven, because he has never told a girl he likes her before. Raven is the one doing the flirting; Hank is just trying to keep up and not embarrass himself.

The pause is their undoing, because it lets Raven speak again.

“It’s my fault Charles got kidnapped though, and I can’t figure out why the hell everyone is being so nice to me! Even Angel!” Raven raises those golden eyes before Hank puts two and two together and she figures it out on her own from the shock on his face. “You didn’t know? Erik didn’t tell you it was all my fault? What the hell!” 

Raven jumps off the table she is sitting on and looks around for something to break. Hank hopes it will be an empty beaker and not something he is using in an experiment.

“Erik said one of Shaw’s mutants got him,” Hank answers. Hank had gotten the impression Erik was blaming himself, since Shaw wouldn’t have targeted Charles without his connection to Erik.

“But he didn’t tell you . . .” Raven doesn’t say anything else. She also sets back down the rack of test tubes without breaking them. “Damn him! Charles disappears and Erik gets nice!? What the hell anyway!?” Raven stalks out of the lab, cursing.

Hank wishes she’d broken the test tubes. It would have kept his hands busy for a minute while his mind sorted out what went wrong just now. He’d almost told Raven how much he likes her. She knows, of course she knows, but Hank still needs to say it if they’re to move past flirting. Hank doesn’t believe it was Raven’s fault that Charles was kidnapped. Charles is her brother; they fight a lot; she feels guilty. That’s all it is. He isn’t going to repeat her words to anyone else, nor is he going to ask her about them again.

There isn’t anything else to do, so Hank goes back to his chart of amino acids and wonders if figuring out the mysteries of Raven’s cells will help him figure out the mystery of Raven herself. It really is too bad people are so much more than the chemical reactions that make up the process of living from a scientific point of view. Cells are very predictable, once you know what rules they’re following. 

* * *

 

Damn Erik! Damn Charles! Damn the CIA! Someone is to blame for how angry Raven is right now. She’s angry that Charles is always telling her she needs to keep her real form hidden from the world. Then Erik comes along and tells her she should accept herself the way she is, be mutant and proud, blue is beautiful, blah, blah - and the first chance he gets, he hides her too. He hid what she did. The other mutants should be screaming for her head because she cut off Charles on that mission and left him open to being kidnapped, and Erik is going to let her get away with it. Damn him anyway. He doesn’t think she can handle life as herself any more than Charles does. Erik says all the right things, then she finds out that he’s secretly just like Charles.

This has  _ nothing _ to do with her embarrassment after she showed up in his bed and he so suavely brushed her off, then she found out later that he’s got it bad for her brother. Her  _ brother! _ Somehow the two of them go from super-smart professor and super-powerful revenge machine to being downright dingy about each other. Seriously, all of them would be in a room listening to Charles spout off about civil rights and human-mutant cooperation, waiting for Erik to set his shoes on fire, and Erik couldn’t even make eye contact with Charles without giving him a sappy smile, kept small like they think they’re hiding anything. And then Charles would  _ blush, _ and launch into some jargon-laden diatribe like if he sounds smart enough no one will notice that the air is crackling with sexual tension every time Erik looks at him. Sure, Hank, Sean and Alex are too dumb to figure it out, but Armando puts it together pretty fast, and Angel probably knew before Erik and Charles did.

Erik didn’t tell her about Charles, and he didn’t tell the other mutants that she screwed up. He’s brushed her off as a woman, as a mutant, and now he’s protecting her from her own mistakes as a CIA operative. She’s been patronized long enough by her brother, and Erik is damn well  _ not _ going to take up the torch in Charles’ absence.

Raven finds Alex, Sean, Angel and Darwin in the kitchen, trying to make shepherd’s pie out of a Betty Crocker cookbook with powdered potatoes. 

“It’s my fault Charles got kidnapped,” Raven announces. “I told him to get out of my head during our mission, and if I’d kept telepathic contact, he might have been able to tell me what was happening in time to stop it. I just thought you all ought to know that.”

“I thought we were blaming Erik, since no one likes him anyway,” Sean replies.

“Raven likes to do with words what I do with plasma blasts,” Alex comments.

“Do you want me to throw a knife at you?” Angel offers. “Seriously, what was that announcement for?”

“Can we just get dinner in the oven before we have another one of these high-octane conversations?” Armando asks plaintively.

The conversation deteriorates from there. By the time Erik and Moira arrive, Angel is shouting at Raven to stop being such a drama queen, Alex is ostensibly trying to calm them down but Alex is incapable of calming anyone down, Sean is alternating between helping Armando stir and chop things and telling Raven to quit trying to take responsibility for someone like Shaw since not even Erik can kill him, and Armando is keeping his head down and pretending that he can’t hear anything. Actually, his mutation may have granted him temporary deafness, given the circumstances.

Erik gets their attention by picking up the table and dropping it from a height of six inches. They all go quiet. Erik is frightening when he looks like that, and even Raven doesn’t dare mouth off right now. He’s looking at her like he knows she’s the center of this storm.

“Do you have news?” Armando asks Moira.

“It’s classified,” Erik cuts in.

“He’s my brother! I have a right to know!” Raven hollers, overcoming her temporary intimidation.

“Why? So you can shout it from the tree tops? Prove to me you can act with discretion and earn the right to be given information,” Erik says. “This isn’t encouraging.” His gaze sweeps the kitchen, taking them all in.

“Raven decided to tell us it was her fault Charles got kidnapped,” Angel says.

“If you want to assign blame, the team leader always takes the blame,” Moira says.

“I told you it was Erik’s fault,” Sean says.

“I’m the team leader. It was my responsibility,” Moira says. Having someone speak so authoritatively and take the blame without any hysterics draws the anger out of the air. “We have indications that Shaw didn’t take Charles to Russia.”

“And that’s the big news?” Alex asks sarcastically.

“It’s all you’re going to hear,” Erik says. “Raven, a word with you.”

Raven lifts her chin into the air and walks out of the kitchen, leaving Erik to follow her. She wants him to ask what the hell she was thinking so she can unload everything on him. He’s so infuriating and confident; he’s strong enough to take everything she needs to yell and scream and not be broken by it.

They don’t speak until they get to the study off the entryway, and then all he says is, “Don’t pull another stunt like that. The CIA is looking for any excuse to ship all of us back to the CIA facility. Don’t make it look like I can’t keep you all under control or they’ll take over. Charles isn’t here to stop them.” He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he walks out, jaw tight.

Raven saw the fear and worry in his eyes. He isn’t strong enough to take her anger, and all he’s asked for is that she not undermine the illusion that Erik is doing fine with leading their small band of mutants. He’s not like Charles after all; Charles has always been strong enough to take her anger, and his leadership was never an illusion.

* * *

 

A day passes, bringing regular visitors to the strongbox. The woman doesn’t come back, but Fox-face goes back and forth with two men in lab coats. Logan still believes there are only about ten people in the facility. He knows Major Stryker is here, so there are probably five others he hasn’t seen yet.

The lighting doesn’t vary, and no one gives him more food, but Logan assumes it is morning of the day after the boy was brought in when Major Stryker walks in, accompanied by four soldiers. Only one has an ordinary assault rifle. The others are armed with a projectile weapon that Logan doesn’t recognize, a wicked pair of nunchuks, and heavy chains. 

Huh, it looks like those are all for him.

“Enjoying your new place, Wolverine?” Stryker asks him, staying well out of reach of Logan’s claws through the jagged window.

Logan makes some creative suggestions about what Stryker can do to himself with those weapons his soldiers were carrying. What can Stryker do to him at this point? Court-martial him for insubordination? He’s never following Stryker’s orders again. He’s going to bust out of here and take that boy with him. He just needs three mistakes. That came from Stryker’s military training - any opponent can be defeated by the third mistake. Everyone makes mistakes if you’re patient enough.

“Yeah, you really are an animal already, aren’t you? If you behave yourself, we’ll take you to meet another freak,” Stryker says, nodding towards the strongbox.

In response, Logan snarls and glares. He’s spent the day thinking of ways to get back into the boy’s presence, and now Stryker is offering to let them meet. He conceals how he really feels under a string of growls.

A panel above the door opens, and a soldier tosses a heavy contraption in that hits the floor with a metallic thud.

“Put that on, and promise to behave, and we’ll open the door,” Stryker tells him.

At least he doesn’t says, ‘that’s an order.’ Logan doesn’t follow orders anymore, but he will take suggestions if they get him what he wants. Right now, he wants to meet the boy in the strongbox. 

He picks up the contraption and recognizes it. They’d locked him into it after they’d captured him before. The device fastens over his biceps, turning his lethal claws inward towards his chest. Stryker thinks it neutralizes him. Logan hasn’t bothered explaining that he can stab himself during the escape and let his body heal. He examines it and decides that stabbing himself won’t be necessary. After turning his body to obscure what he’s doing, he springs a claw and nicks off part of the locking mechanism before fastening it on. He has to use his chin to get the last part in place once both of his arms are confined.

When Stryker sees that he’s wearing the restraint, he gives the order and the door to his cell opens, revealing the transport cell. Logan rolls his eyes. It’s all of twenty feet to the strongbox. They don’t think they could handle him for twenty feet? Alright, so they probably can’t. 

Logan cooperates as the soldiers shift the cell over to the strongbox. When the other door opens, the four soldiers face him down from inside the strongbox. It would have been ridiculously easy to cause a destructive ruckus with how crowded the place is, what with the hospital bed, medical equipment, four soldiers plus Stryker, and Fox-face wearing that helmet. 

Instead, Logan walks out of the cell and stands where they point. Two of the soldiers bolt an iron bar over his waist and fasten it to the wall while the other two soldiers train weapons on him. Logan gives them a bored look. There is just the faintest sense of the hope and peace he’d felt when Fox-face brought his prisoner into the facility.

Three of the soldiers leave once he’s bolted to the wall, without double checking the lock on the arm restraints. That’s the first mistake. They shut the door to the strongbox, leaving Logan, one soldier with a gun, Stryker, Fox-face and the unconscious boy in the hospital bed. The cell is crowded with the five of them.

Logan takes in his surroundings in a glance, per his military training. There are three tubes running from IV stands and monitors into the unconscious young man’s arm, and now that he’s closer, Logan can see it is a young man and not a teenage boy; his shoulders have filled out and his forearms are well-muscled; the stubble on his cheeks is more than adolescent wisps. His arm is taped from elbow to wrist, presumably to keep him from pulling the IVs out. The man is dressed in an army t-shirt and knit pants, with a thin blanket pushed carelessly down to his knees. There are restraints over both wrists and ankles. His feet are bare. The hospital bed is inclined so he is almost sitting upright. Fox-face fiddles with the dials on the IV stand. The soldier with the gun stares straight ahead and tries not to see anything specific.

Stryker sucks on his cheek as he watches Fox-face. He darts a glance at Logan, and Logan remembered Emma saying she wouldn’t do something to him, and Fox-face assuring Stryker that ‘the other one’ would take care of it. 

Once Fox-face finishes with the dials, he takes out an ordinary Army helmet coated with a gray metallic sheen, with a chin strap that is metal instead of fabric, and settles it over the unconscious man’s head. The hope and peace cut off like someone has snipped the end of a ribbon with scissors.

“I’ll take your helmet,” Stryker says suddenly.

Fox-face looked up.

“You’re so sure that thing will work, prove it. I wear your helmet,” Stryker says.

Fox-face pulls off his helmet and hands it to Stryker. Then he turns his attention back to the unconscious man and slaps his face lightly. “Wake up.”

It is a few more minutes before the young man’s face starts working, eyes blinking without opening, shaking his head and moaning. He tries to sit up straighter and is stopped by the restraints. Logan watches him try out his muscles and test how much he can move. It isn’t much at all. Then he tries to scrape the helmet off his head by rubbing against the mattress. That doesn’t work either; the chin strap keeps the helmet in place. At long last his eyes open, bleary and confused. Logan wonders how much he can see as his gaze wanders over the small cell, pausing briefly at the three other men.

“Do you know where you are?” Fox-face demands.

“No.”

“Do you know who I am?” 

The man blinks several time in Fox-face’s direction. “I saw a picture, I think.”

“Who showed you a picture?” Fox-face demands.

“I don’t remember,” the man says.

Fox-face slaps him hard, and the man gasps. 

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine, I won’t. I know exactly who showed me the picture and I’m not going to tell you.”

Logan admires his spunk, and steps in to interrupt Fox-face, who is clearly going to hit him again. “What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m Charles Xavier. What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Wolverine,” Logan replies.

“Right. A code name? I should have used mine, I suppose,” Charles replies, blinking and frowning.

Logan suppresses an affectionate chuckle at the thought of this young man who leaks hope and peace having a code name like a military operative.

“Shut up, both of you,” Stryker says.

“You gonna make me?” Logan challenges him.

The soldier points the gun at him, and Logan huffs out something approximating a laugh. “You’re gonna threaten to shoot me?”

“No, I’ll threaten to shoot him,” Stryker says pushing the barrel of the gun towards Charles.

“Like hell you will,” Fox-face snaps.

“Just in the foot. You don’t need his foot,” Stryker says with a shrug, and the soldier aims his gun at Charles’ foot.

Charles pulls uselessly against the restraint and gives an involuntary whimper that he cuts off quickly. 

Logan presses his lips together tightly and forces himself to relax into a non-threatening stance.

“Good boy,” Stryker compliments him. “Get to work, Shaw.”

Charles is staring at Logan, and Shaw grabs him by the chin and forces his gaze away from Logan. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“The hell I am,” Charles says, yanking his chin out of Shaw’s hand.

“We’re going to use the carrot-and-stick approach, Dr. Xavier. You do what I say, and you get to eat. You don’t do what I say, and you’re not going to like what happens next,” Shaw says easily.

Charles refuses to ask the obvious question. Yep, the kid has spunk. Logan is liking him more and more. He just needs to kill three men, cut all those straps holding Charles down, unlock the strongbox door, get out of this place before the two of them could be captured and then run like hell. It wouldn’t have been that hard, except he has to plan around the fact that Charles could get killed if someone starts shooting. That factor complicates things.

“So let me show you what happens if you don’t do what I say,” Shaw says, and reaches up to adjust a dial on an IV. 

The effect is immediate. Charles starts blinking and moaning, then shaking his head. “Take the helmet  _ off, _ ” he begs.

Shaw sits down on the edge of the hospital bed, facing Charles. “I’ll shift it a little.” Shaw moves the metal chin strap, pushes the edge of the helmet an inch or two, then bends down and presses the side of his head to Charles’ cheek and temple. “Watch closely, Dr. Xavier.”

Charles struggles, but Shaw holds his head with both hands. Logan watches Charles’ expression as it passes from shock into disgust and then horror. He starts yelling and protesting, alternating between pleading for Shaw to stop and exclamations of outrage and fear. 

Shaw finally breaks contact and settles the helmet back into place, then resets the dial on the IV. Charles droops against the restraints, shuddering with long breaths. 

“You understand?”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“Answer me, or I do it again,” Shaw threatens.

“I understand,” Charles says weakly.

“Good. What you’re going to do is get inside his head,” Shaw indicates Logan. “Destroy every memory you can find. Wipe his mind clean.”

“I can’t do that,” Charles says. “I can take away specific memories, or short periods of time, but anything more than that and I risk destroying his identity. Memories make us who we are.”

“Save it for the philosophers,” Stryker says. “Destroy everything - memories, identity, morality, anything in there. He’s already an animal. You’re just finishing the job.”

Logan starts to growl.

“One more sound out of you, and he pulls the trigger,” Stryker reminds him, pointing to where the soldier still has his gun aimed at Charles’ foot.

Logan stops growling.

Shaw puts his hand flat against the side of Charles’ head, fingers up against his temples under the helmet. 

“Stop!” Charles cries out, yanking his head away from Shaw’s hand. “Stop! I just need a minute. I have to be able to concentrate. You have to take the helmet off if you want me to use my powers. And I need my hand free.” He’s pleading now, no spunk left. 

Stryker hands the helmet back to Shaw and leaves the strongbox with the soldier and his weapon. “Radio when it’s done.”

“Get to the other side of the facility. As drugged as he is right now, that’s out of his range,” Shaw replies. 

Several minutes after the two men leave, Shaw removes the helmet from Charles’ head and unfastens the restraint on his right hand. Charles raises it to his temple.

Logan hangs his head. This kid is his last hope. He will either destroy him or not, but Logan isn’t going to fight him. It would be like fighting Kayla. He would have let her destroy him too, if she’d wanted. She had destroyed him, actually, it just took a while to admit it. If this kid wants to finish the job, he’ll let him. Maybe life will be better without his memories and identity.

_ I won’t do it. _ The words edge gently into his mind, tinged with a British accent,  _ but I need you to pretend I am. Could you act agitated? Throw your head around a bit? _

Logan snaps his head back against the wall and howls. Yeah, he should have seen that coming. The words in his head glow with calm that Logan’s mind drinks in like water, even after what Shaw has just put Charles through. This man has heart. He disguises a relieved smile as a grimace and roars.

_ Very good. Keep at it. _

Logan starts trembling convulsively.  _ Can you hear me too? _

_ Yes. I’m sorry about this. _

_ I’m going to bust us out of here. Be ready. _

_ Beg pardon? _

_ I’m leaving. You’re coming with me. In two more mistakes, we’re outta here.  _

_ Alright. _ The mental tone is polite surprise.

_ What’s that crap they got you on? The drugs? _

_ I don’t know. Something that puts me to sleep. Something else that confuses me so much I can’t focus my powers. Shaw has another telepath; perhaps they’ve been testing drugs that affect telepathy. _

_ Yeah, whatever. Lots of testing here. Think you can walk? _

“What’s taking so long?” Shaw demands.

“It’s an entire mind,” Charles replies. “It’s a bit more complex than kicking apart a sand castle.

Logan shifts from roaring to moaning, trying to make it look like he was weakening. 

_ You’re doing really well, _ Charles compliments him.

_ Don’t make me smile right now, _ Logan replies, the hope and peace flowing off Charles are such an incongruous combination with his surroundings that it almost seems humorous. He rolls his eyes back in his head, his entire body shuddering. Then he goes limp.

Slumped in the restraints, Logan can’t see Charles and Shaw, but he can tell when the helmet is back on. The sense of the man in his mind cuts off again. Shaw radioes that he has finished. Instead of Stryker, the two men in lab coats come in and bend over Charles in the hospital bed. Logan sneaks a glance.

“What are you doing? Get away from me with that! Stop it!”

Logan hears the genuine fear in Charles’ voice, and then the acrid stench of burning metal. What looks like a modified solder gun hits the floor, one of the men curses as he retrieves it.

“You’re sure that works?” Shaw asks.

The man in the lab coat replies, “He can’t get it off. That’s an adamantium seal. He’ll wear that helmet for the next 60 years.”

“What good am I to you if I can’t use my powers?” Charles asks. 

“I’ve got my own telepath; the world doesn’t need two of you. You’ll make a nice bargaining chip later when I need Erik Lehnsherr’s cooperation. And you know exactly what I’ll do to you if you act up, don’t you? Don’t think I won’t enjoy it, Charles. I’m hoping you’ll misbehave at some point. Those may have been your worst nightmares, but did you see how much I would like it?” Shaw purrs at him.

Logan doesn’t hear Charles reply to that.

“I’ll inform Major Stryker of the progress of the experiment,” one of the lab coats replies as they leave.

Several minutes pass in silence. Logan moans a few times, but stays slumped over the restraint around his waist as he examines the bolt. The restraint itself is thick steel, but the only thing fastening it to the wall is a half-inch aluminum bolt. He doubts it will stand up to a sharp adamantium blade for long. The second mistake. He convulses, and feels the arm-lock shift. It shouldn’t be too hard to break the rest of that locking mechanism either. Maybe he should take his chance now. He could kill Fox-face, grab Charles and go. Then he hesitates. Stryker is on his way with reinforcements, and he’s going to need some lead time to get ahead of the search team.

Footsteps are already approaching.

“Well?” Stryker demands as he came in the room, only one soldier trailing him this time.

“He did it. I told you he’d do it,” Shaw says, gloating.

“Why is he still awake?” Stryker asks, pointing at Charles.

Logan pulls himself upright in time to see Shaw fiddling with the knobs and sending Charles back into a drugged sleep.

“How do I know the procedure was successful?” Stryker demands.

“Ask him his name,” Shaw says with a shrug.

Logan roars.

“He did stuff like that before,” Stryker says. “Get your other telepath here and have her check what’s in his head.”

“How about you order her to do that,” Shaw replies.

“Damn civilians, no discipline,” Stryker says. “You prove he modified Weapon X according to my specifications, or take your freak and get out of here.”

“She’s more likely to do it if you ask her,” Shaw says.

Stryker jerks his head towards the door, ordering Shaw out. “Let’s go. You stay here,” he orders the soldier. “If Weapon X so much as twitches, shoot Shaw’s freak in the foot.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier acknowledges, gun trained on Charles’ foot.

That’s their third mistake.

Logan groans and slumps forward again. All three men hesitate, and then Stryker says, “If he twitches like he’s got a brain left in his head, shoot him.”

Under cover of the noise of Stryker and Shaw moving the stool Shaw was sitting on, Logan springs one claw out just a few inches and works on the bolt. By continuing to moan and thrash about, he covers the noise as the adamantium severes the bolt, catching it before it can fall and hit the floor.

He holds his breath for just a moment, long enough to hear Stryker’s and Shaw’s footsteps fade, and then he lunges, breaking the arm-lock open. His first slash cuts the barrel off the soldier’s rifle, his second stabs the soldier through the chest. The man’s eyes are open as he slides off Logan’s claws.

“Do  _ not _ shoot the freak in the foot,” Logan hisses at him.

Once he’s shaken the corpse off his claws, Logan slashes the tubing connecting Charles to the IVs, slips a claw underneath the restraints one by one and then gathers up Charles, blanket and all, and throws him around his shoulders in a fireman carry. One big hand pins Charles’ wrist to his ankle to keep him in place, and Logan runs. The facility isn’t designed as a prison, and Logan has been here long enough to know the layout. There is a door to the outside just beyond the entry to this larger room. He spins the locking mechanism, shifts Charles so he can ram it with his shoulder without breaking the man’s leg, and bursts out into the late afternoon of a crisp fall day. The newly rejuvenated muscles in his legs take off eagerly, running for all they were worth. Damn, he feels good.


	6. On the Run

Alex hangs out in the bunker when he can’t stand the tension upstairs. Raven is on some sort of self-blame bender, and she won’t let anyone stay neutral, nor will she let anyone say something nice. Charles’ disappearance has just about destroyed Alex, but he doesn’t see the need to decide who gets the blame. Usually, if something terrible has happened, it’s Alex’s fault. All he needs is to know that this particular disaster is not his fault, and he has no interest in pinning the blame on anyone else. It never helps anyone to be told they’ve done something unimaginably horrible. Alex knows this from firsthand experience.

He needs Charles more than the rest of them do, even Erik. Hank and Raven may not like their physical mutations, but Alex is the only one of them who is afraid he will accidentally kill a friend some day. Charles promised to help him learn to control his power, which will give him the chance to live with himself and with others. If Charles is gone, Alex will end up alone in a cell again, because the solitude is better than risking someone else’s life. That’s the other reason he is spending more and more of his free time in the bunker. Without Charles and his encouragement, Alex is slipping back into the fear of himself. 

The heavy locking mechanism clicks, then clangs, and the door lock spins and opens. It’s Sean and Hank. Alex gets to his feet. He feels like the bunker is his territory, since this is where he practices losing control of his power in less destructive ways, and a host should stand when he has visitors. His mother drilled good manners into him, before he turned out to be a mutant.

“Thought you’d be here,” Sean says.

“And you came anyway?” Alex replies, eyes sliding to Hank, who won’t look at him. 

“It’s quieter than upstairs,” Sean says. “Erik won’t let us leave the mansion.”

“Even the lab?” Alex says, staring down Hank.

Hank shrugs. His evasiveness makes Alex crazy. He should fight back, spit in Alex’s face, yell at him and insist Alex treat him with respect because he doesn’t have any reason at all to dislike Hank. Alex craves Hank’s anger, and he’s doing everything he can to spark it, but nothing works.

“Erik’s pissed about Hank’s research,” Sean explains.

Erik and Raven may be the most visibly devastated by Charles’ disappearance, but they all need him back. Charles isn’t just their teacher; he’s the inertial damper that keeps them from blowing apart into the crazy individuals they all were before Charles gathered them up and tried to make them a family.

* * *

 

The thing is, Angel isn’t as frantically worried about Charles as the rest of them are. She knows why Raven and Erik would be freaked out; Charles is family, even if Erik thinks he’s hiding it. But for the rest of them, Charles is just the teacher. Who cares about the teacher? Angel never felt bad when her high school teacher got sick. Sure, getting kidnapped is a little more serious, but it still means you don’t have someone around to nag at you to do a bunch of stuff you never wanted to do on your own.

She’d shown her wings to Charles and Erik at the strip club. Erik floated a bottle and a drink in the air. That was enough for her to throw over her entire life and join a cause she cares about less and less the longer she’s here. Back before she dropped out of school, Angel developed an interest in history’s rebels. There is a certain flair to the people who give the establishment the middle finger. 

Moira doesn’t talk to the rank and file, so Angel doesn’t know much, but enough to know that Shaw is doing something that scares the human government. Angel has no problem with the idea of scaring the human government. Anyone Erik hates like that is probably a pretty interesting character. The longer she’s here at the mansion, with Charles nagging her to learn the principles of flight, with Hank talking to her about the chemical composition of her acid and making her feel stupid because she can’t understand him; with Erik being so scary that she’s starting to admire anyone who can scare Erik; with Moira hinting that Shaw might destroy civilization and Angel thinking that might be a good thing; the longer all of this goes on, the more Angel suspects she joined the wrong team.

* * *

 

Janos keeps still. He’s good at it, actually, unlike Azazel, who can’t hold still for a second. Janos assumes his inability to hold still is related to his mutation; someone who can travel on the power of a thought could never hold still. Tornadoes, however, reward stillness. There is an eye to every storm, and even in the worst of a storm, it is always best to hold still and hide, because no one can outrun a storm. Except perhaps Azazel.

A storm is raging, but Janos didn’t start this one. If he tries to leave the room, he’ll be noticed. It’s best if he keeps still.

“You guaranteed results; you swore you could keep the telepath neutralized.” 

The anger of the military man is under control, because it is unwise to lose control around Shaw. Shaw takes any control that is lost, multiplies it, and uses it to destroy anyone foolish enough to challenge him. 

“Are we going to waste time assigning blame? How very tedious. But if you wish, we can have this discussion. My telepath was kidnapped by your soldier. I’m not the one who lost control of an asset.” Shaw never loses control. He’s always perfectly in control, even when he’s exploding. 

Janos wonders if Shaw considers him an asset. When Shaw first found Janos, he lavished him with attention and promises. Those faded into orders and veiled threats dressed up as precautions. Still, the plans Shaw has made are better than the life of obscurity and fear he lived before Shaw found him. Shaw’s praise waned when he found more useful mutations. Janos’ powers are not as useful as the telepath and the teleporter. Storms are good for causing mayhem, but they aren’t very precise. Janos’ duty is usually to create distractions while the rest of the team gets the work done.

“How do you plan to track him?” Stryker demands.

Shaw spreads his hands and gives a helpless shrug. “I can’t. With that helmet soldered onto his head, my telepath can’t find him.”

Stryker stares at Shaw, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Shaw usually gets what he wants, and once he does, the people who helped him fade into uselessness and Shaw discards them. Shaw needed Stryker’s facility and resources to create the drugs he used on the telepath. Now that he knows the drugs work, and he’s neutralized the only other telepath they know of, Shaw doesn’t need Stryker’s cooperation anymore. 

Janos had heard the promises Shaw had made to Stryker about using the telepath to wipe the memory and morals of Weapon X. He’s relieved it didn’t work. Stryker’s speech about how much more useful the soldier would be without his memory and morals had made Janos wonder when Shaw would come to the same conclusion about him. Azazel needs his memory because he can’t teleport to places he hasn’t been. Emma needs her mind intact for her telepathy. But Janos could do everything Shaw needs him to do with a mind wiped clean. That’s part of the reason he keeps still; if Shaw doesn’t notice he has a mind and a will, he won’t think about wiping it.

Janos wonders when Emma Frost will figure out that Shaw developed those anti-telepathy drugs because of her, and not because of that other telepath. Shaw has a helmet that blocks telepathy; the Russians gave it to him. But blocking telepathy isn’t enough. The drugs he developed with Emma’s help will let Shaw control how Emma uses her telepathy. Janos doesn’t understand why Emma hasn’t understood that. Perhaps she has been foolish enough to trust Shaw, because he tells her that he loves her and needs her. 

Telepathy just means she can read minds, not that she believes what she sees in there.

Janos remembers convincing himself that Shaw didn’t mean the things he did and said, back when he still believed Shaw had his best interests at heart and was a leader worth following. Now he stays because he’s afraid to leave. He wonders if Emma and Azazel are still here for the same reasons.

“My team can find them,” Stryker growls. “Once they’ve got his coordinates, you can send your teleporter to retrieve them.”

“Unfortunately, now that this operation has been compromised by your failure to control your asset, my team and I will be leaving,” Shaw said with that controlled smile, daring Stryker to protest.

The muscle in Stryker’s jaw nearly jumps out of his face. Then he turns and strides out of the room, the anger turning to calculation. Janos ducks his head because a man like Stryker would be able to feel eyes on him. A man like Stryker also won’t let Shaw’s behavior go unpunished. Whether that is foolish or not was another question. Shaw may have made a dangerous enemy. He hears Stryker shouting for someone named Zero, and hopes Shaw gets them out of here soon.

* * *

 

Charles comes back to consciousness feeling like someone is pounding on his stomach. With another few seconds to evaluate the situation, he realizes he’s draped like a scarf around Logan’s neck, and Logan’s head is hitting his stomach with every stride.

“Put me down,” Charles says weakly.

Logan stops abruptly, swinging Charles off his shoulders before Charles is quite ready for it, and he stumbles when his bare feet land on twigs and rocks. He would have fallen if not for Logan’s arm around his waist.

“You can’t run in bare feet,” Logan tells him. “I’ll take you piggyback.”

“You’re running in bare feet,” Charles says, mostly to delay the moment when the running would start again.

“It won’t hurt me. Come on, we’re only twenty minutes outside the base. They may only have a few men for a search party, but they’ve got some fancy military gear. The more distance we can get, the better.”

Logan turns to offer Charles his back. There aren’t any good options, so Charles jumps and locks his legs around the man’s waist. Logan catches him behind the knees and shifts his weight up higher. Charles wraps his arms around Logan’s bare chest, careful not to drop the blanket, and they take off again.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” Charles says.

“Can’t talk right now, kid,” Logan replies, picking his way quickly down the hillside.

Without conversation to distract him, Charles has time to take stock of how miserable he is. Whatever Shaw had drugged him with left him nauseated and aching, and the jouncing aggravates the nausea, the muscle aches, and the pain of the helmet on his head. Charles runs a finger under the chin strap; the metal edges are digging into the soft skin under his jaw and leaving abrasions. He sticks a finger up under the edge of the helmet itself, trying to probe at the hard, flat surface that clings to his hair. Something sharp, right at the crown of his head, digs in with every step Logan takes. The repeated jabs create waves of pain. He braces his fingers under the chin strap to keep the helmet from shifting with Logan’s movements.

Besides the physical discomfort, Charles is disoriented with the lack of mental contact. In the past, Charles has occasionally wished he could turn off his telepathy, either to avoid strongly projected thoughts from those around him, or to keep his own nightmares and emotions inside his head without the effort of maintaining a constant mental barrier. But having his telepathy fully blocked is like being blind and deaf, then having his sense of touch eliminated. He can’t get his bearings as a person right now. The filthy threats Shaw poured into his mind are locked into his head, and his telepathy paws those over and over, searching for contact and finding only that soul-withering experience.

Charles tries to set up mental blocks inside his own head to put Shaw’s threats on the other side of a barrier, but it isn’t like blocking a memory. The sense of the man as a person is still in his head and he can’t wall it off.

Desperate to distract himself, he counts Logan’s strides and the syncopated rhythm of his breathing. It doesn’t work. 

Logan angles diagonally down the hillside. Charles thinks that going downhill is the most obvious destination, and he wonders why Logan isn’t trying to throw off their pursuers. Then the man reaches a small stream and splashes into it, running downstream. Bitter cold water splashes onto Charles’ legs. There is a chill in the air too. Charles shivers in his thin clothes.

After several minutes in the stream, Logan heads back up the hillside.

Fatigue and misery eventually lull Charles into a daze, where his only goal is to keep the helmet braced so that sharp object doesn't hit the crown of his head. 

When Logan finally stops, it takes Charles a minute to realize the jouncing had stopped. “Did you stop?” he asks stupidly.

Logan swings him down, reaching a hand back to brace Charles as his feet land on the ground. Charles hates to admit it, but he needs that hand bracing him. He holds on an extra few seconds, then sinks slowly to the ground.

“Over here, then you can sit down,” Logan says, pulling Charles towards a rock overhang. 

It's deep, almost a cave. The ground is hard-packed dirt, and the fact that it holds still makes it more comfortable than any feather bed. Dragging that blanket with him, Charles crawls in.

Logan catches him. “Hang on. Let me see your helmet.”

Too tired to argue, Charles turns and sits down to let Logan examine the helmet. He shrinks back with a yelp when Logan springs eighteen inch blades out of his fist. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you, kid.”

Charles nods, but still closes his eyes when those blades come closer.

Logan taps the blades on the helmet, then presses in slowly. Charles cringes, and Logan switches to a sawing motion. Charles feels a flash of hope that Logan can saw through the chin strap of the helmet and get it off, but Logan stops.

“Looks like they coated it with adamantium. That’s the same stuff my claws are made out of. I can’t cut through it. I guess you’re stuck with that thing for a while,” Logan says, retracting the blades into his hand.

“What?” Charles says, pointing at Logan’s hand. He hopes his lack of eloquence is a side effect of the drugs that will wear off soon. He would hate to think that he’s permanently lost his ability to form complete sentences.

Logan obligingly springs the blades out of both fists. “Pretty sweet, eh? It was hell getting them, though. I don’t recommend it.”

“Is that your mutation?” There, he’s managed a sentence.

“What’s a mutation? I’m a freak, if that’s what you’re asking,” Logan says.

Before Charles can gather up enough words to launch into his canned lecture on genetic mutations, Logan shakes out the blanket. He uses a claw to slice off a strip, then retracts his claws and tucks the fabric around the chin strap, cushioning it. The gesture and its kindness affect Charles more deeply than the rescue itself.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Does the helmet hurt?” Logan asks. He sits back in a crouch and looks at Charles. Charles has his first chance to really look at Logan, and he's surprised to see the man isn’t quite as brutish as he’d thought. Black hair and bristly sideburns that go all the way down to his chin, combined with a bulky body, give the impression of thuggery, but there is plenty of concern looking out of those hazel eyes, and one side of his mouth quirks up in what might be an attempt at a reassuring smile.

Charles nods, too wrung out to try and be stoic. “There’s something sharp right here,” he says, tapping the top of the helmet, “and the rest of it is hard and flat, but keeps catching at my hair.”

Logan frowns. “That’s not right. Those helmets have a webbing in them to cushion your head from stuff.” 

Without warning, Logan leans forward and tucks his fingers up under the edge of the helmet, searching for the webbing and bringing his fingertips into contact with Charles’ head. Charles’ telepathy, which has been searching for human contact as desperately as a human in a dark cave would be searching for light, latches onto Logan, giving Charles no opportunity to re-establish his mental barriers.

The last time Charles was inside Logan’s mind, Charles had been partially drugged and trying to be careful enough to reassure Logan he wasn’t going to destroy his memories and identity. He’d gotten a general sense that the man was on the rough edge of despair, but no more. Now, though, his telepathy blasts Logan’s mental state fully into Charles’ mind, and suddenly his mind is awash in the strong man’s compassion for Charles, his protectiveness and determination to do whatever it takes to save Charles. The assurance peels out some of the clenched knots of fear that Shaw left behind.

Charles is scared, hungry, hurt and lonely. Way back, when Charles had been very young, he’d been badly frightened by a dog. He hadn’t been more than four years old, maybe five. Alright, fine, he’d been six. The point is that when he came running into the house, crying with fright and blubbering about the big dog that barked so loudly, his father had been the first person he’d seen. Instead of scolding him for being afraid, his father had wrapped him up in a thick, fuzzy blanket, seated him on his lap, and promised to protect him from big dogs. Charles had calmed down to shuddering sobs and believed every word his father said. He hadn’t had his powers that young, but the emotions from Logan’s fingertips called that incident strongly to mind.

Logan withdraws his fingers from under the helmet, and Charles shivers with the sudden return of loneliness and fear.

“Are you cold? Here, tuck this around you. Let’s get a couple hours sleep. If there’s a moon tonight, we’ll try to put a few more miles between us and the base,” Logan says, fitting actions to words and draping the thin blanket around Charles’ shoulders.

“Could you cut a piece off the blanket and tuck it up the back of the helmet?” Charles asks, mostly to get Logan’s fingers back on his head without admitting he is drinking in the man’s protectiveness to counteract the drugs and thoughts Shaw poisoned him with. 

Logan obliges, and Charles lets his cheek press against Logan’s shoulder when his fingertips touch Charles’ head again, bringing with it that thick, fuzzy blanket of concern and protectiveness. Logan leaves his fingers there and takes a deep slow breath. “You know what, kid? Whatever you got going on up there is good stuff. It’s like believing life can be good again.”

“You what? You’re feeling something good coming from me?” Charles is startled. All he is feeling are variations on fear and pain.

“Sorry, don’t mean to feed off your telepathy,” Logan mumbles, snatching his hand away.

“No, it’s helping me too,” Charles admits. He desperately wants to feel safe again, and as soon as Logan breaks contact with his head, there is nothing left besides himself, his worries, and those evil threats Shaw pressed into him.

“Come here, kid,” Logan says gruffly, and Charles decides he doesn't mind being called ‘kid.’ He settles himself next to Logan. One huge arm goes around his middle, and the other one lies across his shoulder, blessedly coming to rest with Logan’s hand on his cheek and his fingers under the edge of that blasted helmet. Charles falls asleep like that, wrapped in the thin blanket that transforms into a thick, fuzzy blanket only in his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

Moira wakes up to a phone call from Levene before dawn.

“The humanitarian and economic aid the Soviets have been supplying to Cuba all summer turns out to be a front. We’ve got positive ID on Issa Pliyev and his staff, masquerading as a team of agricultural and irrigation experts in Cuba.”

“The Soviet commander-general?” Moira asked, all sleep gone from her head though it is still full dark outside.

“Moira, what was your mutant doing on a yacht south of Florida last year?”

Shaw wasn’t her mutant. Erik wasn’t either, for that matter. But the CIA, who has only unwillingly approved Moira’s mutant program, now holds her responsible for all mutant activity in the world. “Magneto was trying to kill Shaw, not make contact with Soviets in Cuba; we’ve gone over this. They’re not allies, and I know for a fact Magneto isn’t working with the Soviets. Have you found Shaw?” Moira replies.

“We’re closing in,” Levene says.

“All that means is that you still don’t know where he got a submarine,” Moira says.

“We’re eliminating possibilities. We expect to know soon.”

Shaw is a civilian; submarines are solely the purview of the military. Shaw must have ties to the Russian military or the Germans, because if that sub came from the American Navy, all hell will break loose. Though if the Soviets are sending military personnel to Cuba, all hell may break loose anyway.

“What else do you know?” Moira asks.

“The military is planning an aerial reconnaissance mission over Cuba to detect any possible missile sites. Moira, we need more intel from your angry mutant.”

That would be Erik.

“He’s given us everything he had on Shaw. He’s more impatient to find him than you are.” Erik reminds her on a regular basis that he is impatient to find Shaw, though those reminders have now been eclipsed by demands to find Charles instead. 

“He had contact with the submarine.” Levene does not openly refer to mutant powers. “Any identifying details he can provide would be of material assistance.”

“I’ll ask him. He’s more likely to trade information than just give what I ask at this point. What have you found out about Professor X’s disappearance?”

There is a long pause. A brush-off would have come immediately. Levene is considering how to say something, which means he wants to hide at least part of it. 

“We have confirmed that the teleportation phenomenon witnessed at the kidnapping is consistent with the teleporter who works with Shaw,” Levene offers.

“You mean there is another teleporter who isn't working with Shaw?” Moira asks about the words he didn't say. What he did say is so obvious it’s useless. Several of the agents who survived Shaw’s attack on the CIA research facility described the red smoke when Shaw’s teleporter snatched agents and dropped them from heights that killed them.

“The government is aware of another teleporter.”

Levene is the master of non-informational responses.

“Which branch of government?” Moira asks.

“I’ve said all I can. Inform me when Magneto has evaluated his memory of Shaw’s submarine.”

Now Moira is angry he won’t tell her who it is and how the CIA found out. She’s long since dropped the fond delusion that she discovered mutants and is the first to work with them, but it would be helpful to know about other mutants with government ties.

“Anything you can tell me would . . .”

Levene cuts her off. “What’s the status of your team?”

Moira reports that none of them have received a telepathic communication from Charles; Erik is doing well as interim leader; training exercises are progressing on schedule; the team is showing signs of tension but no more than expected, and the mutant operatives are waiting for instructions. She makes things sound a whole lot calmer and more organized than they really are. More truthfully, Erik is a powder keg; Raven is already an explosion; Angel is waiting for an excuse to run away; Alex is putting himself back in solitary confinement; Hank can barely speak to anyone; Sean tries to pretend he’s handling things just fine which is more worrisome than if he would show signs of how he’s going to break down in time for her to make preparations. If it wasn’t for Armando remaining calm and thus proving that mutants can handle a crisis, Moira would have asked for CIA backup and gotten the mutants back to their facility.

It was a mistake to base an entire operation around one person. Charles is what makes the mutant liaison work. If the CIA can’t get him back within the next couple of days, this whole project will fall apart. This assignment started out as a theoretical exercise for Moira. But Charles isn’t theoretical; she doesn’t know if it’s his telepathy or just his personality, but Charles has brought this exercise to life in a way that is threatening Moira’s professional detachment. The mutants are Moira’s cause now; they are both more vulnerable and more powerful than she ever could have expected. And too young.

Levene warned her about this, but he’s such a pessimist he warns her about everything so she has learned to ignore his warnings. Every time Charles and Erik came back with a new mutant, it was a teenager or someone barely in their twenties. Armando, who is 30, was the only exception, and they can’t use him as much as they should. Levene and the others at the CIA are already struggling with having a woman in charge, and accepting the idea that they are dealing with non-humans. If she gave Armando a leadership role, the racism would start working to end the mutant program entirely; Erik’s Jewish heritage is already rubbing her superiors the wrong way. She’ll support Erik as best she can, and hope for Charles’ quick return.

* * *

 

The next day, after putting a few more miles between themselves and the facility where they’d been held captive, Logan spots a farmhouse and leaves Charles hidden in the crook of a couple of fallen trees while he goes to see if he can get them some food. Charles huddles down out of sight and tries to get the tape off his arm. The adhesive brings skin with it where he manages to pull some of it off. Logan cut the tubing off right next to the adhesive, and nothing actually hurts until he tries to pull it off. 

He eventually gives it up and goes back to the problem of the helmet. If he can get a piece of blanket up to the crown of his head, it might cushion the sharp object that is tormenting him. Every so often, his head feels hot and wet, and Charles assumes it’s bleeding. He can’t get his fingers far enough up underneath the helmet to position the scrap of fabric, but he scrapes the chin strap along his jaw painfully in the effort.

Huddled under the increasingly ragged blanket, Charles mopes. He isn’t used to being cold, dirty, hungry, in physical pain, and completely powerless. He’s a powerful mutant, a CIA operative, the professor of a fledgling school for mutants, a well-respected Oxford graduate and the heir to the Xavier fortune. None of that matters here in the woods. Right now he’s completely dependent on the kindness of a man who feels sorry for him.

_ Erik? _ Charles sends the thought out, and it ends in the odd metal echo that blocks all his attempts to use his telepathy. Erik will be able to get this helmet off. Logan says it’s coated in adamantium, which comes from a meteor and is indestructible. But if it’s metal, Erik will be able to manipulate it. Charles holds onto that hope, rather than his captor’s assurance that he’ll wear this helmet for the next 60 years.

He doesn’t need telepathy to know Erik will take the world apart to find him.

_ Erik. _ It isn’t a mental call, it’s a search for a memory to drown out the thoughts Shaw poured into his mind.  _ Erik, I need you. _ All that rage and revenge give the impression of strength, but it’s only a layer. There is so much pain beneath the rage, and below that is who Erik might have been, who he is meant to be. Charles has touched that layer of Erik, pushed aside the pain and anger, and seen that other version of Erik. So recently.

After fishing Erik out of the ocean, Charles, quite naturally, decided to rescue him emotionally as well as physically. He was his kindest, most confident and reassuring self, so certain that if he was made to feel safe, Erik would let go of the pain and anger that ruled his life. Charles made progress; they became friends. The first time he heard Erik laugh was a gift.

The time they spent together collecting mutants gave them the intimacy of knowing each other’s daily habits; there were a few moments that might have turned into something more, but didn’t. Erik held himself back, guarding that pain as the core of himself. It was Charles’ own pain that finally broke through Erik’s barrier. Erik’s brittle strength can’t tolerate the vulnerability of being rescued, but it will rescue someone else.

Charles didn’t expect to be attracted to him, or perhaps it would be more honest to say that he didn’t expect to ever act on his attraction to Erik. In his lifetime of trying to please those around him, there was no room for something as deviant as homosexuality. But Erik intoxicated Charles enough for him to shove aside the mental warnings, for the most part. His remaining uncertainty diluted his usual confidence, and he waited for Erik to lead them on. 

It made him crazy to lie there, the four nights they shared a bed without touching, to have Erik within his reach and do nothing about it, because day after day, they were experimenting with his telepathy and their minds were twining together. The intimacy was almost too much for Charles, who has never been mind to mind like that before. The difference between communicating telepathically with someone and linking minds with Erik is the difference between a businesslike phone call, and sitting down in front of a fire with a best friend and a glass of good scotch.  

It is new to Erik as well, but Erik hasn’t known a lifetime of shielding. Barriers came down; Charles knew the wonder of being  _ wanted, _ not just admired or feared or respected, but wanted. The delicious unfamiliarity of it peeled back more layers than Charles knew he had. He’d almost come to believe the confident, smooth, flirty professor was who he really was until this connection with Erik shows him his deeper self - a man with vulnerabilities and fears, who wants to be wanted rather than admired.

He wonders if Erik’s hesitation is because they were both men, but Erik has never cared for the morals of the humans. The one time Charles allows himself to graze Erik’s mind in search of information he doesn’t dare ask for, he senses Erik wondering if Charles will take the risk of a homosexual relationship.

The question forces Charles to examine his caution. Charles’ goal to integrate mutants into human society requires him to meet all of humanity’s social mores. Mutantism is already a challenge; combining mutantism with homosexuality might be too much for the humans. This desire for Erik could hurt his cause. Erik is so wrapped up in his own cause that he surely would understand Charles’ motives if he calls a halt to whatever is going on between them.

Logically, Charles should not risk society’s condemnation simply because he craves this man lying next to him, who has wrapped his unexpected kindness around all the broken places in Charles’ soul. Yet Charles wants Erik to choose him over Shaw, and his mind won’t let him avoid the unfairness of wavering between choosing Erik or human acceptance. 

He thinks too much, Charles decides, and even after four nights of building up to it, it still seems he caves in to a rare moment of impulsivity.  _ Stop me if you don’t want this. _ Charles goes up on an elbow and kisses Erik, and discovers that Erik has been waiting for just that.

Erik’s hands are on his ribs, and then his waist, guiding Charles to lie on top of him, matching the lines of their bodies so that Charles covers him and they press together from shoulder to knee - Erik’s mouth open beneath his, and his big, long-fingered hands tight at Charles’ hips and then sliding down his backside and pulling him so close that Charles feels the hard ridge of Erik’s erection pressing against his abdomen. 

The kisses are a wonder, but Charles has never been with a man before, and Erik is moving too fast. He pulls away. 

“Don’t stop.” Erik’s voice is ragged. He sits up long enough to yank off his shirt and pants, and to pull at Charles until he undresses too. 

Skin to skin, Erik’s hands are everywhere at once. It is desperation more than desire. Charles can't help but hear the memories of past sexual encounters at the forefront of Erik’s mind - quick and meaningless explosions of sensation that leave nothing permanent behind. Erik will take Charles the same way simply because he doesn’t know another way. 

Charles pulls out of his grasp, sits up to his knees and allows only a hand on his thigh. “You can’t be like that with me. I don’t want this at all if you don’t want it to matter.” 

That hand on his thigh clutches at him. Charles can sense Erik knows what he means on a deeper level. It’s the same dilemma Erik faced four nights ago, when he was the one to pull away for fear that the connection with Charles would change him too much.

“It will matter,” Erik promises, but he won’t meet Charles’ eyes. Erik’s single mindedness will drag his rage at Shaw into bed between them. 

The night Charles pulled Erik away from the submarine, there was a mental surrender when Erik let go of Shaw and allowed Charles to draw him to the surface. Charles waits for that again. There is a long shuddering mental scrape like pulling iron wheels out of a deep and rusted track, yanking on chains that Erik has ceased to notice in their familiarity. Erik hasn’t chosen to let go of the rage that connects him to Shaw, but he has chosen to let Charles matter. What that will mean in the long run remains to be seen, but it is enough for tonight.

Charles feels the shift in Erik’s mind and body. Erik's hands and mouth are then the touch of a lover instead of a man trying to suffocate rage with sex.

The night slows down exquisitely, full of low laughter and questions about what feels good. Their first time together alternates between the heady rush of sexual excitement and the awkwardness of a first encounter. Erik is considerate; Charles is eager to please. Erik admits that the only other time he’s gone to bed with a man, he was drunk. Charles admits that everything he knows about gay sex comes from reading minds, which sends Erik off into gales of half-stifled laughter and a barrage of voyeurism accusations that Charles smothers under kisses and a threat to not tell Erik anything he learned. Erik’s laughter is still a gift, and it’s even better now, in the dimness of Charles’ bedroom with Erik’s mouth close to his ear and his hands caressing Charles’ body. Physical contact with Erik is every bit as welcoming and all-encompassing as the mental contact has been, and Charles opens himself up, body and mind, to Erik.

The power and responsibilities both of them carry drop away, and they are only young, inexperienced men in their first heart-deep relationship. It is enough to light the kisses on fire and make even the unskilled touches a wonder of passion. They end up with Charles straddling Erik, both their cocks grasped in his hand and then Erik overlaps his hand and they thrust into their shared grip, slow and then faster. 

Erik comes first, and watching him throw his head back and let out a long moan of pleasure brings Charles right to the edge. With a few more strokes, Erik brings him over with a cry.

“I liked hearing you enjoy that,” Erik says smugly, and reaches up a long arm to catch the back of Charles’ neck and pull him down for a brief kiss.

“Mmm.” Words are too much effort. Sitting upright on Erik’s torso is too much effort. Charles is pleasantly boneless. He falls onto the mattress. Erik wipes up come with a corner of the sheet, and then Charles feels Erik’s big head nestle into the hollow of his shoulder, and an arm snakes around Charles to pull him close. Erik presses his naked body along the line of Charles’ body, and Charles decides that the intimacy of holding each other in the afterglow of their climax is as thrilling as all the rest.

_ My Charles, _ Erik thinks at him sleepily, reaching up to pet Charles’ tousled hair.

Charles finds that he does not mind Erik’s possessiveness as much as he did four nights ago. After all, Erik belongs to him too, curled up on his shoulder like that. Charles manages a drowsy affirmative before dropping off to sleep. 

Love is a bubbly marvel for them both. After that night, they can’t exchange glances without smiling, or chewing on the inside of a cheek to try and suppress the smile in situations when sappy looks might undermine discipline, which is nearly always. Charles’ brain fizzes and he forgets words in the middle of lectures if thoughts of Erik pop into his mind. His blood runs faster and colors are brighter, because Erik is in the world. The brooding, angry Erik is gone, replaced by an Erik with a dry sense of humor and a cautious willingness to work with a team. It’s new; it’s tentative; it’s a miracle. 

And it didn’t last long enough. That first night was only three weeks ago. Erik dared to love again, and Charles disappeared. To love with happiness requires safety. Fear makes for desperate, clawing love. Charles will find Erik again, but what damage has this done to the chance to be happy together?

_ Erik, _ Charles sends out, knowing it will only echo against the helmet sealed onto his head. Through the thin cotton of his pants, Charles can feel the rough bark of the fallen tree against his leg. His hands rub his thighs, trying to create enough friction to warm the constant chill that has settled into bones and muscle.  _ Erik, I promise I’m coming back to you. _

Lost in his thoughts, Charles doesn’t hear Logan approaching until the man is crouching down next to him. He startles.

“You should pay more attention to your surroundings,” Logan chides him. “What if I’d been one of Stryker’s men? Or that Shaw guy?”

“They would have caught me anyway,” Charles says morosely. “It’s not like I can run.”

“Don’t give up that easily,” Logan warns him. “Most of a fight happens in your head. You quit and you’re dead before your enemy takes a swing.”

“What have you got?” Charles asks, noticing that Logan is carrying a paper bag with a grease stain on the bottom. Also, he’s wearing a t-shirt now. “You were gone for hours.”

“I had to chop firewood in exchange,” Logan says, and thrusts the bag at him.

Charles opens it, the smell of fried chicken, melted butter and biscuits promising to carry him right up to heaven if he dies in this instant. He grabs a piece of fried chicken and tries to take a bite. The chin strap keeps him from opening his mouth very far. Undeterred, he starts pulling off pieces of chicken with his fingers and eating as fast as he can stuff it in his mouth. After a minute, he notices Logan was watching him with a tolerant smile.

“Here, have some,” Charles says, pushing the bag towards him.

Logan shrugs. “I can’t starve. You need it more than I do.”

“It’s more than I can eat,” Charles says. He finishes the first piece of fried chicken and reaches into the bag, wishing there was a napkin. The baked potato is split down the middle, and has a pat of butter melted over it. Charles pulls the potato apart and hands half to Logan, who takes it.

Charles eats the potato and is finishing the second piece of fried chicken when Logan pulls out a Mason jar full of amber liquid and what looks like atrophied tennis balls out of the paper bag. He wrinkles his nose at the same time that Logan exclaims, “apple compote!” and pries the lid off with his claw. Charles discovers that apple compote tastes a whole lot better than it looks, and Logan says they can save the apples for breakfast.

The paper bag also contains a half dozen baking powder biscuits wrapped in wax paper, and then the most beautiful food Charles has ever seen -- raspberry popovers.

“I’ll fight you for one of those,” Logan comments.

That makes Charles laugh. “Do you think I’m that lacking in common sense? When’s the last time you lost a fight?”

“Yeah, maybe you should just hand one over,” Logan says with a smile.  

Charles hands him a popover and the two of them munch popovers together and then lick their fingers. “Thank you,” Charles says when they’ve finished. 

“Don’t mention it,” Logan says with a shrug.

“No, I am going to mention it,” Charles says.

“About that,” Logan begins, and then he pauses.

Charles gathers up the remains of the meal and puts it all back in the paper sack while he waits for Logan to continue.

“Do you remember me? Last summer, I was in a bar, and you and some other guy tried to talk to me and I told you to fuck off. You remember?”

“I remember,” Charles says. He remembers the thick despair that radiated from the man; so intense that he’d felt it when he’d found him using Cerebro. 

“What were you and that other guy going to say?” 

“We were out looking for other mutants; trying to find people to join our little band,” Charles says.

“What’s a mutant?” Logan asks. “Hang on, let’s make you some shoes and start walking. The farmer says there’s a town about 15 miles east of here.”

“Shoes?”

What Logan meant by shoes was taking pieces of that ragged blanket and pieces of the paper sack and tying them around Charles’ feet with the twine the lunch had been tied with. “We used to use anything we could find for shoes during the Civil War,” Logan explains. “Supplies weren’t super regular, and if you couldn’t steal the boots off a corpse, you used whatever you had.”

“Civil War?” Charles asks. It’s a huge relief to be able to walk again, rather than continue to ride piggyback.

“You answer my question first,” Logan replies.

Picking their way through the forest parallel to the road they don’t dare walk on, Charles explains genetic mutations, and Logan explains his history and what makes him a freak.

“Don’t use that word,” Charles insists. “You’re a mutant, not a freak.”

“Whatever,” Logan says with a shrug. “Is that offer to join your unit still open?”

“Nothing would make me happier, my friend,” Charles assures him.

Logan gives him an odd look and a curious smile. 

“What?” Charles asks.

“I don’t dare have friends, and nobody’s ever really happy when I’m around.”

“If you stick with me, I promise both of those things will change.” Charles feels like himself again, confident and determined, at least for a few minutes. Then the twine breaks.

“Why haven’t they found us?” Charles asks as Logan gives up on knotting the twine back together and hoists Charles on his back again.

“There weren’t very many of them,” Logan replies. “And it’s a big mountain to search.”

“I hope you’re right,” Charles says, wrapping his hand around that awful chin strap to cushion the jouncing from Logan’s long stride.


	8. Town

Charles disappeared the day before yesterday. Once in a while, Erik is flat with apathy about the whole situation. Of course Charles disappeared; Erik loved him, and so something terrible was bound to happen. In some way, what happened to Charles is a punishment for Erik’s audacity in daring to snatch some happiness from this bleak life. Already, the happiness is fading from memory and into delusion, where it will remain only as a warning to not try that again. It’s very clinical and scientific, really. Two parts happiness plus three parts love and one part hope, stir until dissolved, heat through, and it becomes corrosive acid in the solvent that is Erik’s life. Charles is a cautionary tale, nothing more.

More often are the times when Erik is angry, frantic, bursting to do something, anything. There is no way for Erik to resolve the guilt. It echoes and intensifies the guilt about his mother’s death. Shaw’s attention is a death sentence for anyone Erik loves. There is nothing to do but coldly plot revenge, and stifle the parts of himself that want to burst out his power and destroy the planet that created Shaw.

Both halves of Erik lead to despair, so he has stopped feeling in favor of thinking. Erik’s long search for Shaw has taught him to turn desperation and anger into cold calculation.

Erik has his information about Shaw spread over the office, augmented by all the new information Moira has supplied over the months they have been at the mansion. He hasn’t paid as much attention to the new information as he should have; his focus has been elsewhere. Charles has paid the price for Erik’s distraction; it will not happen again. A coin floats around his fingers; the habitual motion soothes his emotions with the promise of revenge and allows him to focus his attention.

There are photographs, reports of Shaw’s movements and the activity of his known associates, and a letter provided by a double agent. None of it is especially informative. Spy work is mostly a tedious grind of examining details until they boil off and leave an observation behind. Over and over, Erik reviews the information until it yields an observation. There are not as many Russians as there used to be. Shaw’s focus is shifting too.

Erik bends over a photo of Shaw taken by a security camera. It shows him walking next to a man with sharp creases in his trousers and a buzz cut. Military. Security cameras are unusual, an affectation of governments only. Shaw’s companion does not have the look of a Russian. Erik couldn’t describe the differences between a Russian and an American in words, but he knows it when he sees it. Shaw’s military companion is an American.

He sets this observation against the letter, which appears to be a banal communication about a vacation in Cuba. Shaw does not take vacations, and if he did, he wouldn’t write a letter about it. Erik remembers the maps of the Caribbean that he photographed just two days ago.

The coin drops to the desktop. Erik takes the letter and the photo and goes to find Moira. She hasn’t left the mansion since Charles disappeared, though she is usually on the phone with someone at CIA headquarters. She is on the phone now, and Erik shifts a box to sit down on the coffee table because every chair in her office is covered in boxes of paper.

When she hangs up the phone, she doesn’t give Erik a chance to speak before she asks, “when you were in the water with Shaw’s submarine, did you notice if it had one propeller or two?”

Erik wants to flip back a snide remark, but Moira is more likely to do what he wants if he cooperates with her first. He is learning how to interact with people, slowly, but Charles would be proud of him for remembering to be cooperative when he wants something. Despite the turmoil of that night, his power remembers the shape of the submarine and he dips into that part of his mind for the information.

“Two. Why?”

“That tracks with what I’ve been told. Agents have been investigating where Shaw acquired a submarine. The Soviet navy uses twin screw submarines, and Shaw’s sub is likely a Soviet sub, one they’ve retired to make room in their Navy for the nuclear subs they’re trying to build, without success, I might add. The Soviets have had bad luck with the water reactors - the coolant systems keep failing. Do you remember missile tubes? Any sort of configuration through which they could fire weapons?”

Erik searches his memory, but missile tubes wouldn’t have affected the shape of the sub enough for him to remember it. “I don’t recall. Did Shaw buy that sub from the Soviets?”

“This is classified, Erik, even from the other mutants.”

“Fine,” Erik replies, and wonders why Moira is sharing classified information with him because he has no security clearance. “Where did he get the submarine?”

“From the Soviets, but we don’t know if he bought it or stole it.”

“If the Soviets built a sub, of course it would have missile tubes. What’s the point of a sub that can’t fire a weapon?”

“The number and placement of the missile tubes would give us a clue about whether it’s a diesel attack sub or a strategic missile sub, and that would narrow down its possible provenance. It would also be nice to know if Shaw can fire nuclear-tipped torpedoes.” Moira is sifting through the pile of documents on a leather armchair.

“The Russians wouldn’t be stupid enough to sell nuclear-tipped torpedoes to a civilian,” Erik says flatly.

“Not even if that telepath of Shaw’s tells them to? I’ve seen what Charles can do,” Moira replies. She finds the documents she was looking for and hands two of them to Erik. They are diagrams of submarines labeled in Russian with the NATO classification in parentheses. Erik knows enough Cyrillic to decipher the labels: Kaliningrad B-427 (Foxtrot)  and Project 611 (Zulu). “Can you say definitively if Shaw’s sub matches one of those diagrams?”

“No. And Emma Frost can’t control people the way Charles can.”

That takes Moira by surprise. “You mean controlling minds isn’t a power all telepaths have?”

Erik shrugs. “Charles can control people; Emma probably can’t or she would have controlled me instead of chasing me overboard that night on the yacht. Didn’t he say once that Emma blocked him from controlling anyone on the yacht? I don’t know if Charles can shield other people the same way Emma can. Telepathy manifests differently in different people.”

Moira sighs and rubs her head. “Just when I think I almost have a handle on what you people can do . . . .”

Charles doesn’t even have a handle on what he can do; why should Moira? It’s not his problem. “I want to see the photos Raven and I took before Charles was kidnapped.” The CIA cleaned out the title office after Charles was kidnapped.

“That was all decoy information, Erik.”

“I want to see the photos. You passed on a letter in which Shaw talked about a vacation in Cuba, and I took photographs of maps of the Caribbean.”

“It’s not likely to mean anything. Ever since the Bay of Pigs invasion failed, we know Khrushchev and Castro have had communications. It would have been more suspicious if there hadn’t been maps of the Caribbean. Did I tell you our agents tracked the sources of most of those documents to library books at NYU?”

No, Moira hasn’t told him that. “I still want the photos.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Moira says.

Erik shifts.

“I mean it, Erik. I’ll get you the photos.”

Moira has changed since Charles has disappeared; they all have. She was always intense and focused, and he could admire that about her. Now she is fraying. He wonders if he is coming apart at the seams as obviously as Moira is. Erik doesn’t trust Moira; he’s using her for the information she can provide, but she is Charles’ friend, and for that reason, Erik will make an effort.

“Shaw won’t kill him, Moira. There is time to rescue him before he does any permanent damage.”

“I got him into this, Erik. I came looking for him. I recruited him.”

That’s accurate, and Erik won’t tell her not to feel guilty. “Shaw targeted Charles after I joined you, and that’s what drew Shaw’s attention to him.” They can share blame, but that’s the most he can offer.

“Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will.”

Erik has the photos he’s asked for before lunchtime. The coin weaves its slow way around his fingers as Erik drills his attention into the photos.

* * *

 

They don’t make it to the town before dusk falls. Charles is in bad shape, in spite of the food. He obviously isn't used to privation; he needs a hot shower, three meals a day and a real bed. Logan has seen people like this before, especially draftees, who just aren’t built to survive hard conditions. They try and try, and then one day they start coughing or running a fever, and a few days after that they die. Maybe Charles would have had a better chance if he hadn't been starved and traumatized before their escape. Or if Logan had supplies; even a canteen would make so much difference. As it is, they only drink when they find a stream.

He’d trade what’s left of his soul for a decent pair of boots for both of them. Logan wishes he'd risked the 30 seconds it would have taken to grab the MREs from his cell. He's in a race against time. Can he get Charles to shelter before he catches pneumonia? The fall weather is cold, and it seems Charles never stops shivering.

As soon as they reach town, he’ll win some money in a cage fight and buy them both sturdy hiking boots and good clothes. If the town is big enough to have a hotel, he'll get Charles a hot bath and a bed. Once he’s bought him a knit cap or a hood to cover that helmet, he can take him in public. The way it is now, people will ask too many questions if they see a kid in ragged pajamas wearing that Army helmet. He doesn't know if Stryker has put out descriptions of them to the police as fugitives, but that helmet makes it too easy to identify them.

Logan finds them a thick copse of trees, deposits Charles in a clearing he hacks out with his claws, then backtracks to make sure he’s covered their tracks. He hasn't told Charles, but he's afraid Stryker’s men are tracking them and staying back until either the two fugitives wear themselves out or reinforcements arrive. It sounds like something Stryker would do. He isn’t afraid for himself, but Charles isn’t going to last long against that Shaw character.

Logan climbs a tree and holds still long enough for the birds and crickets to start their songs again. That means no one else is moving around out here. It doesn’t mean no one is here, it just means they know enough to hold completely still. Well, he’s done as much as he can. If someone tries to capture them, he does have these shiny new claws, already christened with the blood of Stryker’s goon.

He jumps out of the tree and makes his way back to their hiding place. Charles doesn’t notice him coming until he is already right next to him again. Is he really that unobservant? Or is it just because he’s fatigued? Either way, Charles clearly can't watch out for himself, which adds to Logan’s worry.

“You feeling okay, kid?”

Charles nods. “Mostly.”

“Still feel like you’ve got some of those drugs in your system?” Maybe that would explain how clueless he is about keeping track of his surroundings.

“I can’t tell the difference between being drugged and tired. I can’t think straight with this helmet on,” Charles admits.

Yeah, that makes sense. Poor little fellow.

“Get some sleep,” Logan tells him. “I’ll keep watch for a while.”

There isn’t much left of that blanket, but Charles curls up small enough to fit under it. After a few minutes, Charles scoots closer. “Would you?” he asks, taking Logan’s hand and pulling it towards his head.

Logan wraps his fingers around the edge of the helmet, resting his fingertips on Charles’ temple. The hope and peace that Charles radiates soaks into Logan’s mind, blotting out the worry and unknotting the tension of the day. He probably shouldn’t let go of all his worry, or he'll lose the edge keeps him alert. To keep himself focused, he starts going over all the many ways he will utterly destroy anyone who threatens Charles in any way whatsoever.

**~###~**

“When we get to this town,” Logan says, carrying Charles the next day, “I’m going to go earn some money and buy you some boots and clothes. Once we’ve got that helmet under a hat, I can take you into the town. We can buy a bus ticket to the border at least. Without ID, we can’t ride over the border, but there are plenty of places to get across on foot. Hey, if we find a payphone, is there someone you can call?”

“The border? Where are we?” Charles asks.

“Canada. You said your friends were in New York, right? Can you call someone? You want me to call someone?”

“Yes.” Charles repeats a phone number until Logan memorizes it and tells him exactly what to say. Huh, Logan hadn’t thought that Charles actually had a code name, but it turns out he not only has a code name, he has an entire script of code phrases. Logan isn’t thrilled he’s with the CIA, but at least it isn’t the military anymore.

Logan skirts the edges of the town, watching the big rigs to find where the bar is. He stashes Charles near a broken down fence. The young man huddles up, knees to his chest. Logan presses the inside of his arm to Charles’ forehead, bumping that damn helmet. “You feeling sick? You got a fever?”

Charles shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just cold and hungry. Can’t I come with you? Where are you going?”

“Nah, you gotta stay out of sight. You’d draw too much attention until I can get you some decent clothes and hat to mostly hide that helmet, plus long sleeves to cover your taped up arm. I’m headed to the bar. I win a couple cage fights and I can get us a few hundred dollars. Enough for clothes and a bus ticket,” Logan replies.

“A bar? I’d kill for a drink right now,” Charles says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“You old enough to drink?”

That earns him an offended look. It's good to see his spunk come back; it makes Logan chuckle.

“I’ll bring you a beer,” Logan promises him.

“Scotch if they’ve got it,” Charles says.

“Sure kid, stay out of sight.”

By the time Logan collects his winnings, every store in town is closed. The only hotel is a cheap flophouse next to the truck stop with no vacancy, so the two of them spend the rest of the night huddled up against the fence. The bar has a grill; he brings Charles a couple hamburgers and a beer about 2:00 a.m. It worries him that Charles barely eats half of one, and only takes a couple swallows of the beer.

Around daybreak, Charles starts coughing.

Logan is as jumpy as hell. He can’t shake the feeling that Stryker’s men are watching them, playing cat and mouse. He called the phone number last night and said all the code phrases, but the responses weren’t all that informative. They were suspicious he knew Charles’ code phrases, but couldn’t put Charles on the phone, and Logan damn well wasn’t going to tell anyone he didn’t know about how bad off Charles was right now, so he’d yelled instead.  They ought to track him down just to find out what he did with Charles.

Either way, Logan gives it even odds if Charles’ friends will come to his rescue. At this point, he’ll welcome anyone if they can get Charles some penicillin. His nerves are the reason he takes Charles with him when he goes back into town.

“Look, if anyone asks, you’re my stepson and you got some kind of problem with seizures, and that’s why you wear that helmet. Plus, you’re mute. Just keep quiet so no one wonders why you sound like the King of England, okay? And maybe I’ll tell people you don’t like wearing clothes. I dunno. Whatever,” Logan says, frantic at the risk they're taking.

“Shall I drool too?” Charles asks snidely.

“Coughing would be better. No one will get too close if you’re contagious,” Logan replies.

The local IFA is the only place that sells clothes and boots, along with tools and livestock feed. He grabs a hooded sweatshirt, about two sizes too big for Charles, and gets that damn helmet hidden. A store clerk offers to help, and Logan gets them both boots, jeans, plaid flannel shirts, thick socks and jackets, plus a knit cap. They have enough money left for cough syrup and Tylenol at Walgreens.

He doses Charles and plies him with hot coffee and chicken fried steak at a cafe while they wait for their bus to leave. The money will only get them as far as Rickerston, but he can earn some more money there. Depending on how bad Charles is coughing, they’ll either hop another bus, or hole up in a hotel and try to steam treat his cough. Logan saw a doctor do that to an Army buddy once. If worst comes to worst, he’ll spend the money on a doctor instead of a bus ticket. That penicillin the scientists invented in World War II saved a lot of sick soldiers, but he can’t just buy the stuff; he needs a doctor to write a prescription.

“Are you all right? Why are you more nervous now that we’re not going to be on foot anymore?” Charles asks.

Logan shrugs. He isn’t going to tell the kid he’s worried about his cough turning into pneumonia. He also isn’t going to tell Charles that if Stryker’s men are watching them, they know exactly where they’re going and how long it will take them to get there. You can’t run away from a bus as easily as you can take off through the hills on foot. But Charles isn’t going to last much longer out in the woods. “Just habit, I guess. You’re not supposed to be able to talk, remember?”

Charles mutters darkly.

“What?”

“I hate coffee,” he says.

**~###~**

In spite of the cough syrup, Charles’ cough worsens rapidly over the next couple of hours. It sounds like his lungs are cracking in half and he has to press hard on his chest during the spasms. Charles tries to say something reassuring about how he gets bronchitis every year and he isn’t any sicker than he usually gets, and that just scares Logan more. If he’s sickly to begin with, he could drop dead at any minute. Logan does not understand illness, but half his unit died of a cough during the Spanish-American War, and he really needs to put his fist through a wall right now.

So when the ticket agent walks up to them where they’ve staked out a bench in the bus depot and asks if Charles is well enough to travel, Logan is not in the mood to be polite.

“There are rules about using public transportation with communicable diseases. Is it tuberculosis?”

“It’s like asthma only not,” Logan growls, ripping his cigar out of his mouth. “It’s worse in the wintertime.”

Charles draws a breath as if he’s about to say something, so Logan wraps an arm around his neck and yanks his head down to Logan’s chest, muffling his yelp. “It’s like this birth defect with his vocal cords affects his lungs too, see? He can’t talk, and he coughs all the time. The kid’s my stepson. His mom’s dying wish was that I get him to a hospital in Boston where they can do some kind of newfangled surgery and save his life. Shit like that.”

“I see. Do you have a doctor’s certification?”

“The doc’s in Boston, bub.”

The ticket agent gives him a long look, clearly weighing his authority against Logan’s glare.

Charles struggles out of Logan’s grasp and gives the ticket agent a watery smile.

The ticket agent stalks off without another word.

“See? If you’re polite, people respond better,” Charles chides him.

“You think he left because you smiled at him? Hell, I scared him off,” Logan insists.

Before they can continue the argument about whether it is better to smile at people or threaten them, Charles’ shoulders spasm in the way that means a coughing fit is coming on. Logan hauls him off the bench and gets him outside where the ticket agent can’t listen to him hack up a lung and decide to throw his weight around again and banish Charles from the bus.

Someone disappears around a building when they emerge from the bus depot. It might be nothing, but it sets Logan’s senses tingling. He can’t smell anything but his damn cigar though. He leaves Charles to his coughing and tosses his cigar and runs to the building. No one is there anymore, of course, he didn’t think they would be. But he runs partway down the alley, sniffing the air and looking for tracks. There wouldn’t be any trace left unless they want Logan to find something, to toy with him and let him know they’re following. Logan’s money is on Agent Zero, but it’s a bet he’d be happy to lose.

Leaving Charles on his own is a bad idea. Logan sprints back out of the alley. Charles is where he left him, doubled over, his face red and the coughs audible from here. When Logan reaches him, he puts an arm around his middle and Charles grabs on with both hands and leans, letting Logan take some of his weight. This is bad, this is so bad. He stops coughing, but it takes him a few seconds to straighten up, and he doesn’t try to give Logan that watery, reassuring smile anymore.

**~###~**

Logan insists that Charles take more Tylenol before they get on the bus, and he’s got a whole mouthful of cough drops, which should keep him quiet until they’re well away from the bus depot. Logan doesn’t think the bus driver will force them off the bus in the middle of nowhere, no matter how much Charles is coughing by then. He picks a seat towards the back of the bus and puts himself next to the window. They’re huge windows, plenty big enough to jump out of if necessary, which makes Logan feel a bit better about riding a bus when they ought to be hiding.

Charles sits down next to him, keeping his head up and shoulders back, trying to look as healthy as he can with his face ghost-pale like that. The hood helps hide his pallor. Logan has a bag of food for later that he puts in the rack above their seats. He stays standing, ostensibly stretching as he checks out the other passengers. There are a couple of families with children, several adult men who don’t do anything suspicious, four nuns, and a group of elderly people who are talking loudly about meeting up with a tour group for Niagara Falls at the next stop. He sits down and scans the bus depot. Still nothing.

The bus pulls out of the depot, and now they’re essentially trapped, sitting ducks for anyone who wants to take a shot at them. Logan figures Zero is most likely to move in once they’re away from the town. Fewer witnesses that way.

He puts a hand on Charles’ shoulder, moves to his neck, and gets his fingers up under that damn helmet. The tension releases Logan as the hope and peace move back in. The kid’s like a drug.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs.

“Sure, kid,” Logan replies. Charles has told him he feels better when he can sense Logan’s mind too.

“Would you not calling me kid once we meet up with my team? I’m kind of the leader, you know,” Charles says.

Logan goes to laugh, and then realizes he isn’t joking. “Uh, sure, Chuck.”

Chuck smiles and leans his head back against the seat and Logan’s fingers, closing his eyes. “Chuck is fine.”

He smells like mentholatum and looks like hell. Logan can’t stand the thought of Stryker or Shaw or anyone else targeting him. He’s just a telepath. Unless you got secrets, who’s afraid of a telepath? Team X was full of dangerous freaks, the ones with powers that can kill; he’s never met a telepath before. This kid doesn’t deserve any of this. Logan has a lot of reasons to be angry with Stryker but there’s always room for more.

They’re forty minutes out of town when Logan hears the helicopter. He also hears sirens. He springs his claws and demolishes the window. He hears a man yelling and the nuns praying. “Keep the bus on the road, and keep going!” Logan shouts at the driver. “Don’t stop!”

Logan grabs Chuck and jumps through the broken window, hoping the driver will follow instructions and keep moving. Agent Zero always tries to maximize the collateral damage, but he won’t be flying the chopper and he wants the pilot chasing him instead of the bus. Logan has Chuck’s face against his chest and he lands on his shoulder, crouching into the roll to take as much of the impact as possible on his adamantium skeleton. That damn helmet is useful for the few seconds they’re rolling down the brief incline.  

Logan comes out of the roll and onto his feet, his arm around Chuck’s middle, already scanning for heavy cover. “Go! There!” Logan shouts, pointing to a thick stand of shrubbery and giving Chuck a shove. Chuck follows orders, staggering.

Logan runs the other way, hoping to draw their fire. The sirens are louder, competing with the chopper blades, and then the deadly rattle of gunfire punches through the background noise and he yells out his defiance until suddenly he can’t move. The helicopter crashes to the ground, much faster than anything can move while obeying the normal laws of physics, though the fire and explosion act normally. Logan doesn’t really care, his attention is on the hail of bullets, inches from his face, as motionless as he is.


	9. Rescue

Erik is in a van with Moira and Levene when he hears a helicopter and the driver turns on their siren. Helicopters have no business flying in rural southeastern Canada at all, much less within a 40 mile radius of where Charles might be lost, if that phone call yesterday from someone named Wolverine is to be believed.

“Is that ours?”

Moira says no just as Erik senses bullets leaving a machine gun before he hears it. Warping the side of the van enough to get the window out of his way and lean out, Erik freezes every bit of metal that isn’t their van or the bus the helicopter is aiming at, yanks the helicopter out of the sky, and then stops their van slowly enough to not give anyone whiplash so Moira can stop yelling about it already. Any helicopter aiming a machine gun at a bus is clearly up to no good - it’s not like Erik has completely lost his mind - so Moira can shut up now. There is no point to him waiting in the van while the other vanful of CIA operatives figures out what’s happening because he’s less likely to get shot than anyone else so Moira can quit trying to order him around. He is so damn sick of Moira right now.

He heads towards the robot, or whatever that thing is that has a metal skeleton and was running when he froze it. It’s a man, and Erik reaches into his skeleton and finds that this isn’t a type of metal he’s ever encountered before when he hears a weak cry of “Erik!”

It is almost Charles’ voice, but not quite. The man wearing both a flannel shirt and hooded jacket is Charles’ size, but there is no sense of Charles in his mind, and so he stands next to the metal-filled man and loses precious seconds when he might have been running to meet him. Because it is Charles, he finds out when Charles swarms into his arms. His head is covered in the same alien substance as the man’s skeleton, a helmet that Erik explores with his powers and presses his cheek against through Charles’ hood for the half second embrace that is all Charles’ allows.

Erik knows they must take Charles’ kidnapper alive, but there is no reason he has to be treated gently. Moira will yell at him no matter what he does, so Erik throws the man roughly into a tree. He grunts with the pain, and Erik is only getting started, when Charles shoves Erik and yells at him to stop it, then runs to the man’s side.

“He rescued me, Erik, he’s been keeping me alive these past few days,” Charles says, reaching out a hand to the man who is already standing back up.

“Erik!” Moira yells.

He turns around to yell back and something smashes into the side of his head so hard it throws him to the ground, ears ringing and his vision swimming with the force of the blow. When he rolls over, he sees it is the metal-filled man who has hit him with a closed fist, and Charles is hanging onto his arm, yelling at him that Erik is a friend and to stop it, and then yelling at Erik that Logan is also a friend and he should stop it too. Before either of them can respond, Charles’ shoulders spasm and then he doubles over into a coughing fit that cracks wetly in his chest. Logan puts an arm under his stomach and Charles leans into the touch, letting Logan support him while Erik sits on the ground and stares at them.

“You CIA?” Logan asks Moira over the terrible sounds that Charles makes.

Moira flashes her badge.

Charles’ coughing fit winds down, both hands pressed to his chest.

“He needs a hospital,” Logan says tersely. He heads up the hill towards the CIA van, half-carrying Charles.

Erik stands up, staring at the two of them walking away from him. Moira’s expression is wary; she knows enough not to ever pity him, and he wipes his face clean of anything that might be showing. It is Charles; they’ve found Charles, and Erik should be breathing easy after these past three days of worry and turmoil, but this is not the Charles he lost. This Charles hasn’t touched his mind; he’s defended that metal-filled freak against Erik; and somehow Logan is the one who rescued him and not Erik.

They leave the other van of agents to deal with the burning wreck of the helicopter. The bus has had the good sense to keep going. Levene is giving someone instructions over a two-way radio as the driver pulls back onto the road.

“Erik, take it _off,"_ Charles says in that voice thick with illness, pulling the hood off his head to expose a silver-green Army helmet and leaning across to Erik.

Moira stops Erik with a touch on the hand already reaching for the helmet. “Is this what’s blocking your telepathy?”

Erik is not pleased to be reminded that Moira was expecting to feel Charles in her head too.

Charles nods. Logan, who is sitting next to Charles, touches the helmet, curling his fingers around the edges, looking more genuinely concerned than anyone that brutish has any right to look.

“Can you wait until we have a chance to examine it properly? There may be electrodes embedded into your skull, or there might be a dead-man switch, or some way to trace the helmet if a circuit is broken when it’s removed,” Moira says.

“Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine?” Logan says.

Charles starts coughing again, doubled over into his own lap. Erik is across from him, so he puts his hands on the helmet and searches. The only metal is in the helmet itself. There is another substance between the helmet and Charles’ head, but it isn’t metal. There are no wires or electrodes either, though. Erik takes the chin strap where it meets the helmet on both sides between his thumb and finger and breaks it off cleanly, catching the helmet as it falls off his head.

There is a mental explosion as Charles fills his head with pain, fear and relief. From the reactions of Moira and Levene, they’re getting the full effect too, and the driver slams on the brakes and demands to know what the hell is going on.

Perhaps he should have warned Charles before he took the helmet off.

Charles is still coughing, the spasm getting stronger. Logan has spread a huge hand over the entirety of Charles’ head, holding him with the other arm, and is murmuring softly to Charles. The only words to describe the expression on his face are utter devotion, and Erik goes cold.

Draped over Logan’s lap, the coughing fit winds down as the force of Charles in their heads also lessens. The driver gets them moving again.

_Charles?_

_Oh, Erik._ Charles’ mental voice is just as tired and weak as his speaking voice, though it isn’t clogged and thick. Then he sends Erik an image - a memory of Erik holding him in the mansion to keep the nightmares away, accompanied with the _warm-happy-safe_ mental state. _Erik, I’m so happy to see you._

It is enough. Erik sits back and leaves both of them the dignity of acting like professionals instead of lovers. He gets into the image Charles is sending him and tightens the mental-Erik’s hold on Charles.

~###~

They go to a hotel, not a hospital, and Logan is agitated about it until Moira says the doctor is coming to the hotel, and yes he will bring penicillin. During the too-long ride to the hotel, Logan has told them that they were being held captive in a military base and he’s been the subject of mutant experimentation and, yes, the military officers were all Americans. Erik cannot understand why Moira and Levene are surprised by that, but government operatives are stupidly naive about how evil their own governments can be. This results in more conversations over the two-way radios, cryptic and full of code phrases, and then, wonderfully, so many people that want to talk to Logan at the hotel that he has to let go of Charles.

“I’ll take care of him,” Erik says. Of course he will take care of him. Erik takes the bags of clothes and toiletries from the errand boy agent who fetched them and shuts the door against all of them who think they have some sort of right to ask Charles what has happened before Erik can find out for himself. Erik already knows most of it - Charles has given him a welter of images and memories from his ordeal during the drive, but he wants to hear it in Charles’ voice and hold Charles close while the fear releases its hold on him. Once Charles is asleep, Erik can plan new and interesting ways to make Shaw suffer, but he won’t contaminate Charles’ mind with that now.

There is banging on the door as soon as it closes.

“It’s Logan,” Charles says, as if he will open any door if he knows Logan is on the other side.

Logan hands Charles a bottle of Tylenol and a bag of cough drops and asks if he needs anything else before the doctor gets here. He almost steps into the room and Erik maneuvers to block him.

“I’ve got it,” Erik says tersely.

“I'll be alright, Logan,” Charles says.

Erik closes both hands over Charles’ shoulders, fingers stroking Charles’ collarbone, and watches the realization dawn in Logan’s eyes. Good. He shuts the door again.

Charles leans back against Erik, and Erik slides his arms down to his middle and holds him. Charles likely hasn’t bathed since he was captured, and the smell of dried blood mixes with the smell of an unwashed body and cough drops. Erik presses his cheek to Charles’ matted hair, and Charles hisses in pain.

“There was something sharp in the helmet. It hurts right there.” Charles tries to lift his arm to touch his head, then stops.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Erik says.

“Stop hovering. I can clean myself up,” Charles grouses at him.

Erik wants to hover, but he can’t imagine Charles is going to let him brush his teeth for him, so he contents himself with setting out the toiletries the agent brought, and yanking the tags off the sweats and t-shirts they’ve supplied. He welcomes Charles’ snappishness; it’s more reassuring than the coughing, exhausted man who had a hard time keeping his head up during the drive.

After brushing his teeth and shaving off a week’s worth of beard, Charles takes the clothes Erik hands him and shuts the bathroom door. Erik turns on the faucets for him from out here, just because he wants to do something.

The telephone on the nightstand jangles out its harsh ring and Erik picks it up, expecting news of the doctor’s arrival. “What?”

“Come look at this helmet. Before we send it to the lab, I want your opinion of its composition,” Moira says.

Erik decides Charles will want information about how Shaw blocked his telepathy more than he will want Erik to sit and wait for him to finish showering, so he says yes. He also wants to tell Moira the helmet should go to Hank, not some CIA lab.

In the other hotel room that is looking more and more like an adjunct CIA base with every box the agents carry in, Levene is photographing the helmet from different angles while another agent drips a solution onto the severed chin strap. Logan is in the back of the cramped room, talking to an agent while a double-reel recorder takes down his words.

“Logan calls this adamantium and says it comes from an asteroid,” Moira informs Erik.

Erik takes the helmet, ignoring Levene’s scowl, and examines it with eyes, hands and power at once. The reflective surface on the inside of the helmet is not metal. It is faceted rather than curved; the panels are joined together with a weld that might be silicon. At the crown, there is a diamond shaped protrusion, smeared with blood and a few strands of hair. Erik flicks it with a finger. It isn’t glass either. Not his specialty.

He turns his attention to the coating over the ordinary M1 steel helmet. It is more still than any other metal Erik has encountered, even on a molecular level, there is no sense of movement. To others, metal is an immutable solid, difficult to mold and change, but Erik feels the malleability of metal; even the strongest and hardest steel is ductile under Erik’s power. This adamantium refuses to be ductile, it is why the chin strap snapped instead of melting. Under a microscope, Hank will see that the line of separation is perfectly straight, not a molecule of roughness. Erik can already sense the unearthly perfection of the break. He rattles off information and Levene writes it down.

“The stuff is unbreakable once it hardens into a solid,” Logan says. He’s ditched his interview.

“Yes, I know,” Erik says. He doesn’t ask Logan how he ended up with a skeleton full of the stuff; Charles told him mind-to-mind in the van, and if Logan doesn’t want the CIA to know the full extent of his mutation, Erik isn’t going to out him.

“How’s Chuck? Why did you leave him? Is he coughing? That kid’s been running on nothing but fumes and courage for days now.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Erik says flatly. Charles is none of Logan’s business anymore.

“That’s a bad cough. I thought you said there was a doctor bringing penicillin.” Logan says this last part to Moira.

“He’ll be here in an hour or two,” Moira replies.

“I can go check on him if you’re busy,” Logan tells Erik.

“I’m not busy,” Erik says sharply, shoving the helmet back into the agent’s hands. He cordially dislikes Logan for his interest in Charles; it is not outright hatred because apparently Logan saved Charles from Shaw. That doesn’t make them friends, but it does mean Erik won’t blow him across the room, or at least not unless Logan annoys him. He isn’t used to sharing responsibility for Charles’ well-being and he does not intend to get used to it.

_Erik?_

_On my way._

Back in the hotel room he is sharing with Charles, Erik hears the water still running in the shower. The gentle pull of Charles’ request is still in his head, so he taps on the bathroom door. _What can I do?_

Charles’ mental tone is embarrassed. _I wrenched my shoulder when we jumped out of the bus. I can’t get my arm above my head. I need your help to wash my hair._

Erik unlocks the door and steps into the steam-filled bathroom. Charles is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a soaked towel wrapped around his waist as the water beats on his legs. Erik strips down and steps into the shower, reaching a hand to help Charles stand up. The first thing he does is start coughing again, despite the hot steam.

Erik steadies him, willing his body not to respond to wet, slippery Charles clinging to him in the shower. “The doctor will be here soon.”

Charles rubs his chest when the spasm finishes. “With penicillin, if Logan has anything to say about it. It’s all he’s thought about since you took that helmet off.”

He can’t quite stifle the flash of jealousy.

_No need, Erik. Logan was passing me off as his stepson and calling me ‘kid’ these past several days. And he’s straight._

That helps. Erik knows how much Charles hates to be treated like he’s any younger than he is. One of the hazards of being a genius is being too young to be taken seriously, even when you know more than the older people. Erik runs a hand over Charles’ smooth cheek and down around the back of his neck.

_Be careful at the crown of my head. There was something sharp in the helmet, and it’s swollen. I think it bled._

Erik tips Charles’ head back into the stream of water. He has his eyes closed, giving Erik a chance to look at him closely. There is a long scrape across his forehead where the reflective material on the inside of the helmet would have rubbed, and more scrapes along his jawline from the chin strap.

Erik bends down to get the tiny shampoo bottle and empties half the contents over Charles’ head. With gentle fingertips, he massages it in, linking to Charles’ mind enough to avoid the tender spots. He takes more time than necessary to massage his head, especially around the back of his ears and nape of his neck where Charles likes to be touched. Charles is tactile; touch is comforting, and Erik is more concerned with the comfort than the cleanliness right now. He tips Charles’ chin up to rinse the soap, then pours the rest of the shampoo bottle into his hair and does it again.

By the time Erik has rinsed out the second washing, Charles is almost drowsing against him, arms around Erik’s waist and head on his shoulder. Erik stands in the spray and holds him close, his nostrils full of steam and the smell of shampoo, his mind as full of Charles as his arms are. He needs the closeness and reassurance as much as Charles. No one he’s ever lost has come back to him, and he is still tentative about trusting that Charles is really here and that Erik doesn’t need to burst out his powers and destroy something in the most violent way possible.

 _Maybe later, though,_ Charles replies to the thought.

_Take me back to where they held you prisoner, and I’ll pull it down around their ears and bury it so deep not even archaeologists can find it._

_Yes, I know you will._

When Charles starts coughing again, Erik fiddles with the knobs to increase the steam, and steps Charles out of the shower to avoid getting scalded. He drapes a towel over his shoulders while the coughing spasm winds down, then towels off and dresses quickly, leaving Charles to the bathroom and some modicum of privacy and dignity.

Charles emerges from the bathroom, dressed in new fleece, cheeks flushed from the hot shower. He is soft and warm and pliable when Erik pulls him onto the bed and curls up around him, smelling of shampoo and water. When Charles starts coughing again, Erik puts his hands on Charles’ chest, and Charles presses his hands tight while the coughs shake him apart.

They don’t have to wait too long before Moira and Logan arrive with the doctor, who is also a CIA agent. He flashes his badge, then sets his black bag on the desk and directs Charles to a chair.

Logan waits through a brief examination before asking about penicillin.

“It’s a cold,” the doctor replies. “It could turn into bronchitis or pneumonia, but the infection hasn’t settled into his lungs yet. There’s nothing we can do for a cold. If he gets plenty of rest and good care, it might not get any worse.”

Erik is as disbelieving as Logan is that the diagnosis would be something that ordinary. But before he can say so, Logan is going off about penicillin again.

“How long has he been coughing?” the doctor interrupts Logan.

“Just started this morning,” Logan admits.

“I told you that,” Charles supplies.

The doctor lectures Logan about the difference in symptoms between a cold and pneumonia and offers to let Logan listen to Charles’ lungs through his stethoscope. That doesn’t end the argument.

“Will penicillin hurt him?” Moira breaks in.

“No,” the doctor replies.

“Then he gets penicillin,” Logan says before Moira can say it.

Charles gets penicillin.

_What is up with him?_

_He’s seen a lot of people die, Erik._

“Now let’s talk about letting him rest,” Logan says when the doctor leaves. “If we take him back to wherever your base is, will people leave him alone? I think he should stay here where he can’t do anything else but rest.”

Charles tries to argue with that, but can’t sustain the argument through the coughing fits. The doctor has also strapped his arm to his chest and told him he needs to get his shoulder x-rayed next week if the pain doesn’t ease up.

“The hotel isn’t secure on a long-term basis,” Moira points out, “and we’re not that far from where you were being held.”

“No one is getting past me, and Erik can help too,” Logan says.

Erik is _not_ going to be relegated to the status of Logan’s assistant.

After a heated argument, during which Logan announces he’s hiring on as Charles’ bodyguard, Moira doesn’t say no, and Erik melts the curtain rod, they decide to go back to the mansion.


	10. Home

The children spill out of the mansion when the van pulls up. Charles welcomes the impending chaos because it cannot possibly be more tense than being in an enclosed space with Logan and Erik, each of them competing to see who can worry about him more. Charles is fairly certain he’s going to end up barricaded into the subterranean bunker, wrapped in thick quilts and fed on gruel for the foreseeable future. Either that or pulled in half.

Erik opens the door and gets out first. Charles pushes in front of him before he can snap at the children to leave him alone. He’s got to get to Raven.

Raven is hanging back behind Alex and Armando, wearing a nice dress, cream skin, and an expression full of remorse. It is odd to see Raven trying to be conciliatory, and Charles doesn’t need any more apology than that. She still sniffles out an apology against his shoulder when he gives her a one-armed hug, and he says not to worry about it out loud, not in her head, though his voice is raspy and breaks on the words.

“What the hell, Charles?” Raven asks, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him out where she can see him.

“It’s just a cold,” Charles reassures her, and then doubles over coughing. All of them stand and watch him cough, which is a bit awkward.

Erik ushers him into the front hall, trailed by the rest of the mutants with Moira bringing up the rear. Charles can feel the group’s need for reassurance and information. He can’t give it to them right now, and Erik is fussing over him even though it would be more help if he would fuss over the children so Charles could stop worrying about them. Erik is going to drag him up the stairs and put him in bed before he’s had a chance to tell them he’s fine, and the children desperately need him to say it.

“Ten-hut!” Logan barks out.

The children have seen enough World War II movies to snap to attention, the boys falling into a crooked line, Raven joining them and morphing the dress into a G.I. uniform with a private’s insignia on her sleeve. Angel looks at the group with a skeptical expression on her face before taking a place at the end of the line, slouched on her hip and most definitely not standing at attention.

“This your outfit, Chuck?”

“Yes, this is . . .” Charles wants to make introductions but Logan cuts him off.

“Listen up! Your C.O. is on the sick list. The doc says he’s gotta rest, so he’s gonna rest, and you all are gonna leave him alone while he does it. Any questions? Good! You!” Logan points at Sean. “Find us a briefing room. I’ll tell you everything I know about your C.O.’s whereabouts these past few days, and then we’re gonna do PT. You wusses don’t do enough PT! You know how I can tell? I looked at you! What the hell kinda outfit is this? Where’s the briefing room? Why the hell aren’t you talking? I asked you a question!”

Sean shoots a frantic look at Charles, but Logan is not someone to be ignored, so he says, “we can use the front parlor.”

“A front parlor? You got a  _ front parlor?" _ There are no words to describe the contempt in Logan’s tone. “Hell, Chuck, what kinda pansyass outfit you got here? That front parlor is now the briefing room, and there damn well better not be any flowers in there! Fall out!”

“Chuck?” Hank whispers at him, incredulous, but he doesn’t dare stop as Logan marches them away.

There is a definite feeling of glee coming from Logan’s mind, so Charles assumes the children will shortly realize that Logan’s bark is worse than his bite. Plus, he’s promised them information and to run them ragged. Now Charles can quit worrying about his little band of mutants and let Erik fuss over him. Moira stops them only long enough to say the doctor will check on him tomorrow. 

A few minutes later, Charles is in his own pajamas and own bed, with three pillows propping him up into a sitting position. He isn’t going to sleep very well - he’s too congested and whenever he drowses off, he wakes up coughing. He sips on honey lemon tea and turns down Erik’s offer to try and remember how his mother made mustard plasters to treat chest congestion when he was a child. Erik paces for a while, then kicks off his shoes and climbs into bed with Charles, putting himself between the pile of pillows and Charles. Charles sets the tea cup on the end table and settles back against Erik.

“You finally feel like you’re relaxing,” Erik says, cheek against Charles’ head. “What did Shaw do to you? What aren’t you telling me?”

There are things Charles isn’t telling Erik, but that isn’t what he wants to talk about right now. “Can you feel the fear and tension up here?” Charles taps his temple. “Or am I beacon of peace and hope for you?”

Erik snorts. “You’re scared shitless, Charles, and that’s not an insult. Shaw scares me shitless too.”

“But what have you felt from me? Mentally, I mean?”

Erik does not easily speak about feelings, and the conversation is no longer verbal.  _ Being on the run, sick, lost, all of that, has really knocked you for a loop. _

_ That’s what you’ve felt from me? _

_ Charles, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. _ Erik gently massages his uninjured shoulder.

Erik has always responded well to Charles’ need for safety.  _ Thank you, my friend. _

Erik continues the massage and Charles lets his body relax. Mentally, though, his mind is puzzling over why Logan can pull peace and hope from him when all he’s felt since he met Logan is the gut-wrenching fear that Erik has so easily sensed.

~###~

 

Charles is too sick to do anything interesting, but too healthy to want to stay in bed all day. The doctor says he still doesn’t have pneumonia, and his shoulder is on the mend, but predicts dire consequences if Charles over-exerts himself. “Pneumonia or bronchitis are still a risk if the infection worsens,” were his exact words. That’s enough for Erik to shut down any suggestion of Charles going downstairs.

“No one is here anyway,” Erik points out as the doctor leaves with Moira. “No one even came home last night.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better about being cooped up in my room?” Charles demands, as soon as the coughing spell winds down.

Erik gets a faraway look on his face, and then says, “Logan is still on the grounds. I assume the children are with him.”

“I know where everybody is, Erik,” Charles says, and sends his own call out to Logan.

Not long after, pebbles hit his second-floor window. Charles dodges Erik and pushes the window up. Logan is down there, along with Alex, Sean and Armando.

“Status report, Chuck!” Logan hollers.

“He can’t yell or he’ll cough,” Erik shouts back.

“Hey, professor! Look what I can do!” Armando reaches out a hand to Sean, who takes it, steps on Armando’s knee, and then climbs on his shoulders. Alex is next. Alex reaches to Logan, who makes a standing jump, grabs Alex’s hand, and balances on the makeshift pyramid. Armando, who has put on thirty pounds of muscle to hold their weight, lets loose with a battle cry, echoed by Logan.

“He’s fireproof too!” Alex yells, jumping back down.

“We make a great fishing team! Logan wouldn’t let us eat anything but what we could catch and kill ourselves last night. So I screamed in the lake, then Armando took a net, grew some gills, and scooped up all the dead fish,” Sean excitedly informs him.

“That’s marvelous,” Charles calls out, and sure enough, it makes him cough.

There’s a whoop from the tree line, and Hank appears, running barefoot with a blue Raven on his back. Hank is fast, and Raven is balancing her feet on his hands, crouching over his shoulder. Angel swoops over them, outpacing them, but not by much. Raven reaches up a hand, and Angel darts down to slap it.

“Hi Professor!” Hank calls out when he reaches the rest of the group, not even winded. 

Raven shows off her balance and agility by climbing up to Hank’s shoulders and standing on them to wave at Charles. Hank is a picture of delight, his hands wrapped around Raven’s calves.

“Raven does much better at piggyback than I did,” Charles says to Erik, while waving back to Hank and Raven.

“Perimeter report!” Logan barks out.

“Front gate is secure, sir!” Raven hollers back, with an attempt at a salute.

“North fence line needs repairs, but no fresh footprints, sir!” Armando shouts.

“There’s not much happening on the other side of the lake. Is that what you want to know?” Angel says.

“I am not running all the way to the south property line again,” Sean says.

Logan grins at him. “Sounds like you just volunteered.” 

Sean falls over dramatically. Armando prods at him with his foot.

“Will you need any food?” Charles offers.

Alex is going to enthusiastically accept when Logan cuts him off. “We still got fish from last night.”

“I’m sick of fish,” Angel says.

“You’ve only been eating it for a day. Wait until you’ve eaten if for weeks before you start complaining,” Logan says.

Angel rolls her eyes.

“That’s enough of a break. Let’s go!” Logan forms them back up into a line and they start back to the trees, with Angel in the air.

“Will you be back tonight?” Charles calls out.

“You can’t get tough if you sleep in a bed every night!” Alex shouts back at him, running off with the others. 

Charles is chuckling as Erik shuts the window and steers him back to bed. “By the time I’ve recovered, they’ll either have gone completely wild, or be tired enough to sit in a classroom. Do you want to join them? It looks like it would be more fun than babysitting me.”

Erik gives him a look that makes Charles laugh out loud. “He’s not that bad, Erik.”

“Why are you so taken with him?”

“I’m not ‘taken’ with him, whatever you mean by that. He’s a good man in a crisis. He saved me from Shaw. He can’t die. And he’s making himself very useful.”

There is more to it than that, but Charles doesn’t want to articulate it all. He’s not sure of all of it himself yet. It has affected him to meet someone who likes his telepathy right off, who expects nothing from him and is willing to give everything. 

“He can’t die, Erik,” Charles repeats. 

Somehow, that is the most important fact of all.

* * *

 

Erik refuses to allow Charles downstairs until he can sleep through the night without coughing. Charles would have argued more, but Erik pointed out the risk of passing his cold on to everyone else. Erik looks offended when Charles suggests he could catch it, and sure enough, Erik seems to be immune. Charles suspects it is the steel in his soul. Erik alternates between attentive concern reminiscent of how he treated Charles just before he was kidnapped, and a brusque distant manner that calls to mind the version of Erik who nearly left with Shaw’s file the day after Charles pulled him out of the ocean. Erik doesn’t know how to feel, and Charles is too emotionally exhausted to puzzle it out for him.

Being quarantined gives Charles time to catch up on all the new intelligence Moira is giving them. The link between Shaw and the American military was apparently the break the CIA needed, and they’re closing in at last. A sharp-eyed agent spotted an incident report filed by a watch commander at the New London Naval Submarine Base in Groton, Connecticut, describing a possible intruder in their Nuclear Research & Development Facility, accompanied by wisps of red and black smoke without fire. It isn’t much to go on, but knowing that Shaw has a submarine and an associate who can teleport is enough for the CIA to make the location a priority focus.

“Groton, Connecticut is barely over a hundred miles from here,” Erik observes.

“Any unauthorized trips could jeopardize our intelligence and warn Shaw away,” Moira says.

“I wasn’t going to show up and scare him off,” Erik says with a scowl.

“Is there anything more to report on his associates? He has a telepath, a teleporter, and a storm-creator. Anyone else to worry about?” Charles asks.

“Not that we know of,” Moira says.

“A submarine,” Charles repeats absently. He frowns, and his brow furrows. He’s tried to erase every memory of the mind link that Shaw forced on him when he was drugged. The man’s foul thoughts raked up every horrible thing that had ever happened to Charles and promised to eclipse them all with the threat to Erik, but even while Charles was struggling to block him out, he was hearing more than Shaw wanted him to hear.

“Is Shaw’s submarine nuclear?” Charles asks.

“No, it’s a diesel-electric sub,” Erik replies. 

“If he had a nuclear reactor, could he turn it into a nuclear-powered submarine?” Charles asks.

Erik shakes his head. “From all that information on submarines Moira has given me, I can tell you that’s impossible. The configuration of the sub is designed around its propulsion system. Retro-fitting a diesel sub into a nuclear sub is impossible. A nuclear reactor would be useless for propulsion.”

“He wanted a nuclear reactor, though,” Charles says, probing back into the memory cautiously, as if it is still infected with Shaw’s actual presence. “There was something about his submarine and a nuclear device. A war that hasn’t started yet. A connection with the Jupiter missiles in Turkey. Am I making any sense?”

“You linked with Shaw telepathically?” Moira is almost salivating, flipping through a notebook in search of blank pages and uncapping a pen. “Tell me.”

“How did you link with him?” Erik asks. “You were drugged and you had that helmet on.”

Charles shoves his hands in his pockets and wishes he could avoid telling this to Erik. “He forced a link. He meant to threaten me if I refused to cooperate with him. I was drugged, so I couldn’t control what he was doing to my mind. I think I found out more than he wanted me to know. Or maybe he planted those thoughts to throw us off. I wouldn’t know.”

“What did he threaten to do to you?” Erik asks dangerously, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and fix his gaze on Charles.

Charles shakes his head; most of the threats centered on Erik, and Erik doesn’t need any more reasons to hate Shaw. “I don’t want to remember the threats, so don’t make me repeat them. Some of his general thoughts around the threats were about a nuclear reactor and his submarine and that’s all I have.” He licks his lips and keeps his gaze away from Erik. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“It’s enough, Charles,” Moira assures him. “It’s enough.”

“Wait,” Charles says, raising his eyes to Erik’s. “Did you know he’s a mutant?”

“Shaw?!” Erik exclaims.

“He’s a mutant; I could feel it clearly while I was in his head. Something to do with energy manipulation. Truly, you didn’t know?”

Erik has gone as still as glass, and just as breakable. “He can’t be a mutant.”

Charles stays quiet, the turmoil in Erik’s mind so clear that he can’t help but feel it with him. Erik has neatly divided the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’ There is no room in that black and white thinking for a mutant like Shaw.

After giving Erik a few moments to process what he’s said, Charles adds, “Shaw is a mutant. That’s how he knew what you were.”

Erik’s hands cover his eyes, as if he’s trying to keep Charles from seeing something as vulnerable as confusion. 

Charles lets his thoughts tumble around with Erik’s attempt to reframe his worldview to include this new information. He’s cautiously hopeful. A confused Erik may be more open to new ways of thinking than a determined Erik, though it’s hard to see his pain. He reaches towards Erik, intending nothing more than to press fingertips to his arm. Erik jerks away from him.

Moira and Charles exchange a glance. 

“What can you tell me about Shaw’s mutation?” Moira asks, her pen paused over the paper full of notes, neatly deflecting the conversation away from Erik.

Charles searches the fog of that experience, piecing together things that didn’t matter as much as survival. “When Shaw attacked the CIA facility, several of the agents reported that bullets didn’t kill him, and then he set off explosions.”

“Yes,” Moira nods. “We assumed Kevlar body armor and a supply of grenades and other explosives.”

“Energy manipulation,” Charles says, his eyes going wide as the memory of what he sensed in the mind link combines with the debriefing he received after Shaw’s group attacked the CIA facility and destroyed Cerebro. “He can transform kinetic energy back into potential energy, and then redirect what he’s absorbed. Nothing shielded him from those bullets, Moira, he absorbed the energy from those bullets and then channeled it into those explosions.”

Charles is certain he’s right. The look on Moira’s face as she processes what Charles has said must mirror his own growing sense of horror.

“And he wants a nuclear reactor,” Moira whispers.

“That he can’t use to power his submarine,” Erik continues, lifting his face out of his hands.

“To set the Cold War on fire,” Charles finishes.

* * *

 

Logan and the children show up at Charles’ window frequently, and while most of the mutants are doing just fine, Charles is starting to worry about Angel, whose attitude is deteriorating. He sets that aside to give Logan ideas on how to have them exercise their powers. Logan reports progress, which is encouraging and makes him feel not quite so useless while he stays in his room and coughs. Honestly, the mutation that is causing him the most concern is his own. Over the past week, he’s asked Erik to check on his emotional state a few times, and every time Erik has reported it accurately. Then Logan would show up and throw pebbles at his window. After the verbal report on the group’s activities, Charles would ask Logan if there is a reason he comes by so often. Charles senses what was going on, but he wonders if Logan can explain.

_ Just need a recharge every so often, kid. _

_ Emotionally, you mean? _

_ I was in a bad place before you showed up, Chuck. _

_ I’m happy to help, though I’m not sure what I’m doing. _

_ Just be you. Good enough, eh? _

Then Logan would announce he was teaching Sean how to build a lean-to and can you believe Alex doesn’t know how to trap a squirrel and Angel sure is squeamish and Raven and Hank are racing each other through the trees and he’d better get back before Armando burns down the woods and how much acreage does Chuck own anyway? Then he’d be off again.

“What are you feeling from me right now, Erik?” Charles asks.

“Strange combination of boredom and hero worship.”

Charles presses his lips together. He’s accurately described Charles’ mental state, though Logan drew something else entirely from Charles just now. He wants to talk it out with Erik, but Erik has made it very clear he doesn’t like Charles’ fascination with Logan. 

“He can’t die, Erik.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” Erik replies.

Talking to Erik doesn’t do any good. Charles stuffs his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders. He’s wearing the plaid flannel shirt Logan bought him when they were on the run because it’s as warm as a cardigan and not as bulky. He misses the attentive, concerned Erik with the reserved sense of humor who only comes for a few minutes at a time now. The closed-off Erik who holds himself emotionally distant from Charles and whose thoughts always return to finding ways to kill Shaw is here most of the time. It’s disturbing to be close to someone who thinks about murder so often. 

Some of the murderous rage is because Shaw kidnapped Charles. Charles feels guilty that he’s added to the venom that is rotting Erik from the inside out. Vengeance is not a comfortable companion in a relationship, but Erik thinks it’s a manifestation of love to want to kill someone who hurt Charles. Charles can’t be certain, but he thinks the murderous thoughts have increased since he told Erik that Shaw was a mutant. 

Erik has seated himself on the armchair next to Charles’ fireplace. When Charles joins him, legs over Erik’s lap, Erik unbuttons his shirt and carefully pulls it down to expose Charles’ injured shoulder. He’s resisted going to a hospital for x-rays. It’s improving. The sharp, stabbing pains aren’t as frequent, and he can avoid them by moving slowly and not trying to lift his arm over his head. Erik hasn’t insisted on the x-rays; Charles suspects it’s because Erik likes helping him wash his hair. Charles’ hair has never been so clean, so thoroughly and so often, though Charles has to admit he likes it as much as Erik.

Erik brushes his fingertips over Charles’ temples to ask for a mental link. Linking with Erik is more than communication. It’s like being wrapped in his mind, with his thoughts and affection tinging the connection; mindlinks with Erik are markedly different than links with anyone else. Erik begins massaging his shoulder, gently skimming over the painful parts and digging into the areas where the muscles ache from holding still for too long, eyes closed as he processes Charles’ physical sensations instead of his own. The mingling of their minds draws out the lingering fear of Charles’ ordeal and Erik massages away that pain as well.

“I haven’t had any nightmares about Shaw. I don’t know why,” Charles says, carefully introducing the topic of Shaw, hoping Erik will talk through how he is processing the fact that Shaw is a mutant.

“Nightmares only come if you’re trying to avoid thinking of something. You aren’t trying to keep up appearances and pretend this hasn’t hurt you as badly as it has,” Erik replies. His fingers are kneading Charles’ shoulder blade now, Charles’ body rocking in response to the rhythmic pressure.

“You’re a safe place,” Charles says quietly. It is Erik who has insisted on this week of healing, with barely any contact with people who need him to be confident and assured. Here with Erik, he can hurt without hiding.

“I like that you need me.”

Charles closes his eyes, and wishes he dared to ask if Erik needs him too. Erik likes Charles’ weakness and pain, because Erik likes to be strong for him. On one level, Charles knows Erik relies on him too, but Erik won’t say it. The truth hangs between them unspoken, and the silence worries Charles. Erik hides from himself, which leaves Charles wondering which version of Erik he knows best. “You didn’t have this after you escaped from Shaw. No one let you need them.” It’s as close as he can come to asking if Erik will let Charles help him.

There is silence for a long time, and Charles resists looking into Erik’s head. He wants to know what Erik is willing to say, not what he wants to hide.

At last, Erik says, “The isolation made me stronger; strengthened my resolve.”

Erik’s fingers have worked their way up to Charles’ neck, and he lets his head drop forward. “Healing isn’t weakness, my friend.”

Erik’s fingers pause. “I didn’t mean you were weak.”

“You mean healing would weaken  _ you, _ though.”

“You rescued Raven, Charles, let that be enough.” Erik’s big hands glide down Charles’ neck and collarbone.

A coughing spasm gives Charles time to think that through. Erik’s hands on his ribs hold him as he coughs. “I tried to give her a safe space, but she didn’t heal, or we wouldn’t butt heads so often,” Charles says when he can speak again. It confuses him that Raven can’t see the need to keep from upsetting people who could hurt them. He’s still trying to make a safe space for Raven, and the older she gets, the less she’ll cooperate with his efforts.

Erik laughs shortly. “If you think healing means being happy about hiding all the time, then I don’t want to heal either. Charles, don’t you see that healing doesn’t mean appeasing the humans?”

That stings. He knows his assimilationist views conflict with Erik’s antagonistic views, but he clings to the surety that Erik would want to fit in and work with the humans if only he would let go of all that pain and anger. It’s the pain and anger that isolate him. If Erik healed fully, he would adopt Charles’ viewpoints and goals. 

Some of those thoughts must have bled through their link because Erik goes very still. “You bloody fool, do you really think that? Some days your arrogance really gets out of hand.” 

There isn’t an undercurrent of affection to the harsh words, and Charles goes cold. “Don’t shut me out! Don’t! But you must see how much of your fear that we’ll be hunted and tortured comes from what Shaw did to you! Shaw is a mutant, not a human!” Charles puts his head on Erik’s shoulder and presses into him, a hand wrapped around Erik’s bicep. He won’t let Erik push him away; he can’t stand it.

“The world isn’t safe for me or any other mutant as long as Shaw is alive. The humans only tolerate us right now due to our common enemy. Once he’s gone, the humans will turn on us. We both want a better world, Charles, a world where it’s safe to be who we are. My methods are a little more direct than yours.”

Erik has classified Shaw as an aberration; his world is still divided into mutants against humans. The confusion has resolved itself into certainty again, and Charles can’t help but feel he missed an opportunity to sway Erik’s thinking. Charles doesn’t want to argue with Erik. He doesn’t want a conversation where one of them has to win and the other has to lose. Instead, Charles sends Erik the memory of their first night together, and how the choice Erik made to love Charles more than he hated Shaw opened him up to a free and unshadowed love that bettered them both.

_ It’s not that simple anymore, Charles. _

_?? _

_ Shaw is a danger to you. How can I choose to love you and ignore Shaw? I have to kill him. Surely you see that. _

_ Turn him over to the authorities; let them deal out justice. _

At that, there was only a sense of contemptuous laughter in Erik’s head; the humans cannot deal with Shaw at all, much less force him to face justice.

Charles cannot really argue with that, and he loses the argument with a sense of hopelessness, as if he’s lost more than the argument.


	11. Mindlink

Once Charles is healthy enough to be downstairs again, Logan leads his exhausted, dirty band of mutants back to the mansion. They exclaim excitedly over indoor plumbing and clean clothes, but Angel seems to be the only one who didn’t have the time of her life. Sean and Armando are now fishing buddies and fast friends; Hank has apparently gone ballistic on Alex and won’t put up with being teased about his feet anymore - oddly, Alex acts like this is a good change; and Raven keeps trying to catch Logan off guard with a roundhouse kick to the head, which amuses him.

After showers, laundry and food, Charles sorts out their homework and studies, making assignments and noting the changed dynamics of the group. The progress Charles made in turning them into a team has solidified, and there is no remnant of the ragged misfit mutants who were leery of themselves and each other. Armando offers to help Sean with math without Charles even suggesting it, and Alex asks Raven to proofread his history paper after Raven brags that she edits Charles’ work. She doesn’t do anything of the sort, but any input would have to help Alex when it comes to spelling and grammar. Angel grouses about everything, and snaps at Hank when he makes a suggestion. Looks go around the group, and Charles doesn’t like the vibe he’s getting that is excluding Angel, though it seems to be a response to her behavior this past week. He’ll have to pull her aside at some point and see what he can find out. Not right now though.

Later that evening, when everyone else is busy with studies, even Erik, Charles quietly asks Logan for a few minutes of his time and leads him to a sitting room on the third floor where they won’t be disturbed.

“How’re you feeling? You’re still coughing.”

“My coughs always linger for a couple of months. It’s nothing serious,” Charles replies. He’s used to the lingering cough; it happens whenever he gets sick. As long as he can sleep through the night, he doesn’t let the cough bother him. His shoulder still sends sharp pains down his back and arm if he tries to raise his arm above his head, but even that is better than it was.

“I wondered if I could have a look at your mutation,” Charles says to forestall more discussion about his health, tapping his temple as he closes the door.

“Sure,” Logan says with a shrug.

He doesn’t ask any questions, but Charles answers them anyway. “There is something odd about the way you interact with my telepathy. When I have a mental link with others, they can sense my mental state, but I have to initiate the link and they can only feel what I’m feeling. You seem able to initiate the link on your own, and you draw feelings from me that I’m not experiencing. I would like to find out why.”

“Sure,” Logan repeats. He’s got a fond look in his eye, as if Charles is unbearably clever and Logan wants to brag about him. Having someone be proud of him meets a need Charles didn’t know he had.

“What can you tell me about your mutation?” Charles turns away to cough for a moment.

“I get hurt; I heal. Not much more to it than that.”

“Do you have any control over it? Can you control the rate of healing, for example, or even delay it? Could you choose not to heal?”

Logan’s face goes very still. “Funny thing about that, kid. The weeks before you showed up, I felt like I’d split in two. There was me, and I just wanted to die - no joke, I was just so done with life. Then there was my mutation, and it was going to keep me alive no matter what. It was weird to feel like I was my own worst enemy. I still can’t tell you which half was the good guy and which half was the bad guy. Then you showed up and put me back together, however that worked.”

“Did you have any control?” This is what Charles has been doing for nearly a year now - teaching mutants how to control their powers. Logan is different, and Charles needs to know how.

“Nah, none. Even if I get knocked out, my body will heal while I'm unconscious. It’s weird to feel like your life isn’t paying any attention to you.”

“I’d like to explore that telepathically.”

“Go ahead.”

The two of them are seated on a couch, facing each other. Charles clears his throat and coughs again before initiating the telepathic link. Typically, Charles puts two fingers to his own temple. This time, he leans forward and sets his fingers against Logan’s temple.

Telepathy has its limits - Charles can read only what people are actively thinking about at the moment. With more effort, he can access deeper memories and beliefs, but he does that by following the neural paths of their current thoughts. The day Erik struggled to move the satellite dish, Charles touched the corner of Erik’s mind where he’d locked down a happy memory of his mother. He found it by accessing Erik’s frustration that he couldn’t use his power the way he wanted. That frustration had been most intense when Shaw killed his mother when Erik failed to use his power on command. From there, it was a straight path from the pain of his mother’s death to the joy of his mother’s life and love for him.

Charles is looking for a path like that into Logan’s deeper mind. Logan’s surface thoughts are of the mutant recruits he’s spent the past week with, and from there it is an easy transition into his connection with Charles, since he kept the children busy to allow Charles time to rest. As when they were on the run, Logan’s focus on Charles is protective. The protectiveness, oddly enough, is only partly rooted in Logan’s conscious mind. Charles has never probed deeper than consciousness before, so he stays in Logan’s conscious mind and follows the path into Logan’s memories.

Kayla Silverfox. Life as a lumberjack in the Canadian Rockies. The smell of the pine trees and crisp air. A home, a real home, that he’s proud of because he built it and Kayla is happy there. Her touch heals him. That part intrigues Charles. Why would Logan need someone else to heal him? He won’t force this from Logan, but he waits at the question until Logan lets him deeper.

Now the memories are ugly, brutal. Wars, fights, battles, so much death. Deaths he witnessed, but even worse are the deaths he caused. Some were combat deaths, but there were civilian deaths, innocents who died, and while he stopped it eventually, there are still people who died who should have lived, who would have lived if Logan and Team X had stayed away. Guilt. Self-hatred. Despair. Blood on his hands that won’t wash away. Memories that won’t be purged by alcohol or time. Deeds that can’t be undone. All the many moral injuries that his mutation can’t heal because his soul is bleeding and not his body.

Kayla’s touch calmed him by muting the memories, muffling the pain. Charles stops at this and examines it, because he recognizes the touch of telepathy. Charles has controlled people with his power, manipulated memories when he thought he was justified in doing so. Kayla’s influence on Logan is familiar to him. _She was a telepath of sorts, a tactile hypnotic._ Logan hadn’t known that, and Charles’ identification of Kayla’s power throws Logan’s mind into a whirlwind as the deception lets go. It is deception. The numbness was a lie, and no lie lasts forever. Like someone who drinks to induce temporary amnesia, the return of the memories after the hangover hurts more than if there had been no false reprieve at all.

Watching Logan’s mind unravel Kayla’s deception stuns Charles. The moral injuries come roaring back undimmed. Charles can’t help but wonder if his manipulations and control have had this impact on others. The sense of Logan’s betrayal is rivaled only by the fear that he shouldn’t have trusted his own mind. People are right to fear telepaths. Injuries to the body can be identified and healed, but an injury to the mind twists and tricks and layers on fear in ways that can’t heal. Charles is aghast at his own arrogance, to use his power to manipulate another person’s mind and to think that the other mind would never know what had happened. Telepathy can’t change reality; only perception. Reality always reasserts itself, tearing away the telepathy eventually. Telepathic interference sets time bombs. Charles is reeling as hard as Logan, but he’s in too deep to get out of Logan’s mind.

Kayla’s damage didn’t end with the hypnosis that numbed his pain without truly healing anything. She deserted Logan with no explanation that could make sense to a mind she had already damaged. The lies and confusion pulled Logan’s mind apart. The adamantium infusion was almost a relief, in that the agony was purely physical and could heal. Emotionally, Logan’s mutation was powerless. The damage, the lies and confusion, the disparity between reality and the beliefs broke his mind and plunged him into despair. Then Charles arrived.

Charles catches that first glimpse of himself through Logan’s eyes, peering through the windows he’s torn in the metal walls of his new cell at the shaky young man being steered through the room trailing tubes and an IV stand. The memory is clear and clean, like water. Underneath is something else. Charles is standing next to the memory, watching the water begin to roil. He shouldn’t know this. There should be privacy blocks; he should pull back; Logan can’t give him permission to know this because Logan doesn’t know it himself. Charles starts to back away. He should leave; he knows he should leave, but underneath the memory of the water that Logan’s mind drank is the explanation Charles seeks. He can choose information, or he can choose to walk away.

It is nothing so mundane as curiosity that draws him in. Knowledge is power, and though this is Logan’s power, it is drawing on Charles’ power in ways he doesn’t understand. Charles stays because he wants to know more of the power. His motivations surprise him; he’d always thought his motives were more altruistic. Charles rationalizes his decision by telling himself that the better he understands his power, the more he can help people.

Charles is beneath Logan’s conscious thoughts now; he’s never gone so deep with anyone. There is no sense of Logan as a person, someone capable of communicating. Logan has been taught that he is an animal. On some levels he fights that label, but not down here. Beneath the veneer of civilization, Logan is an animal. The survival instinct is everything. Logan’s mutation is the survival instinct writ large, coded into his cells and rooted in his unconscious mind where it cannot be reasoned with.

Other mutant powers are under conscious control, difficult though that control might be. Logan’s power has no such checks on it. When Logan’s power realized it couldn’t heal Logan’s suffering mind, it found something that could, and simply reached out and took what it needed from someone capable of a mental link.

The protectiveness that Logan feels for Charles is self-preservation; he needs Charles alive and well for his own benefit. It unnerves Charles; this symbiotic relationship that is unconscious on Logan’s part and involuntary on Charles’ part. Not so much that Logan can draw hope from him to heal his damaged mind, but that neither Logan nor Charles has any control over what is happening. For now it is benevolent, but what if the survival instinct creates a zero-sum game? What if someday Logan’s power wants something that Charles does not want to give?

_What does it think of me?_ Charles wonders, and then wonders when he began to think of Logan’s power as its own entity, separate and apart from Logan. If part of a mind is not under the person’s conscious control, is it truly part of you? Might it become an enemy?

From his genetic studies and Hank’s research, Charles knows mutations are in their DNA, coded into every individual cell of their body. Their training exercises teach the brain to direct the coding in those individual cells. Charles has thought of the training exercises he has devised as analogous to a music teacher tutoring a human with an aptitude for music. The ability may already be present, but one must practice and study to develop better control and expression over something that is already inherently strong. Conscious control is necessary, regardless of whether the ability is a mutation or a human talent. Isn’t it? Logan’s mutation challenges what Charles thought he knew, and he must find out more.

Charles pushes into the barrier between Logan as a person and Logan’s mutation. There is a web tangled at the barrier, resisting him. He pushes through the web, and finds that the resistance was on his end. Logan’s unconscious mind simply takes him in entirely. There is no boundary between himself and Logan’s survival instinct. Logan’s mutation pulled hope from Charles to heal Logan’s damaged mind in the same way Logan’s mutation compelled him to eat once food was available - simply as a source of health. It is the understanding of himself as a source of health that stops him where he’s at. What if Logan’s mind decides Charles should stay for Logan’s benefit? Would he be able to get out?

Slowly, Charles begins to untangle his telepathy from Logan’s unconscious mind. He discovers this is harder than backing out of a conscious link. Everywhere he senses bits of himself, now tangled up in Logan’s unconscious, and it has not taken parts that Charles would willingly give.

There are memories of his father, and Charles’ devastation at his death. The hope that turned swiftly to fear when Cain and Kurt Marko joined their lives. Echoes of the terrifying memories of pain and terror that Charles has denied, buried so deeply that they only come out in dreams. Charles is layering Erik’s love and safety over those memories, and down here is a fear that the solution is only temporary because Erik will not stay. Kayla muffled Logan’s pain, but only temporarily. Charles felt Logan’s devastation when it all came roaring back. Erik is only temporary in Charles’ life; the pain and fear will come back roaring back when he leaves.

There is so much about Erik; his fears and anger, that fierce and fragile love that has pried Charles open and left him vulnerable again. He needs Erik to stay, and down here there is nothing of Charles’ ethics.

Even further down is the memory of the mindlink that Shaw forced on him when he was drugged and imprisoned. Charles buried it as deeply as he could, poured denial over it and smashed it flat. But it’s still here. Shaw means to take Erik. Not kill him, but take him back as a willing follower. Shaw will succeed, whether Erik kills him or not. Charles knows he will lose Erik, not to death, but to hatred. Some day, Erik will choose hatred of Shaw over love for Charles, and leave Charles to his loneliness and nightmares.

Charles struggles away from the horror that is all the more horrible because Charles suspects it is a prophecy. That initial contact in the ocean the night that Erik chased Shaw’s submarine, with Charles diving into Erik’s mind as deeply as he dove into the water, drove Erik in below Charles’ consciousness. Charles knows everything about Erik. Shaw’s threat is a promise and, down here, Charles can’t pretend it is anything else.

Charles pulls back harder. He tries to gather up the bits of himself that Logan’s unconscious has latched onto, but he can’t. It’s like trying to pick up water, and it flows back out of his fingers no matter how tightly he closes his fist. It seems he will be leaving parts of himself in Logan’s mind. Charles is suddenly afraid. The unconscious is unconscious because none of us want to know ourselves on the deepest level.

Shaking himself mentally, Charles tries to pull off the clawing neurons and thoughts that are picking at him. Charles runs for it, trying to cover his tracks as he goes, but knowing he’s just smearing them. He meets Logan’s consciousness back up by the memory of the water that flowed out at his first sight of Charles.

_Hey, kid. How’d it go? Find what you’re looking for?_

Logan doesn’t know what Charles did. Charles can hide it. Maybe later he can come back and try to erase what he left.

_Yes, thank you, very interesting, and nothing at all to be concerned about._

From the conscious mind, Charles can detach easily. Or he thought he could. He has to blink several times before his mind can make sense of the world with only the input from Charles’ eyes. Eventually, he is back to himself, taking his fingers off Logan’s temple and leaning away from him.

“Good?” Logan asked.

“Yes, everything is fine. It turns out you’ve simply been accessing my basic optimism, regardless of what my surface emotions are. It was rather reassuring to find out that my optimism is fairly deeply rooted,” Charles says with a smile. It shocks him to realize how good he is at dissembling. He won’t call it a lie. He’s simply being reassuring until he has enough information to decide what to do.

Logan gives him a long, measured look and Charles braces himself for an accusation, because of course Logan must know what happened in his own mind, but then Logan shakes his head with a smile. “I haven’t been around anyone like you before. I mean, the way you’re turning these kids into a team to help them out. I’ve been on a team, and none of our leaders were trying to make our lives better. You’re a real leader Chuck, trustworthy. Once people find a leader they can trust, they’ll walk through fire for him.”

Charles can’t reply to that, only take a deep breath and resolve to fix it all, as soon as he knows how.

Logan’s hand lands on his head. Charles senses the turmoil again, coming in waves. He’d momentarily forgotten he’d pulled away Kayla’s calming influence and left Logan with undimmed memories of brutalities and evil.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Charles whispers.

“You know, on some level, maybe I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Kayla,” Logan said. “It was all too good to be true.”

There is silence between them for a moment, then Logan blew out a long sigh. “Nah, I never knew I shouldn’t have trusted her. I believed her all the way down. It happens like that when you want something to be true that much. I wanted everything she said to be true. No one can fool you as well as you fool yourself, eh?”

“There’s something to that,” Charles says. Logan’s fingertips dig into his scalp, but he doesn’t pull away. After what he’s done, he owes Logan anything he wants to take from Charles right now.

“You’re different. This from you is real.”

Charles closes his eyes in shame.

“I can’t forget the past, you know. Sometimes I wish I could. It would actually be something of a blessing if my memories got blown away somehow and I could start over from nothing. You ever feel like that? Hell, you’re too young for regrets. Forget I asked. You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna help you. What you’re doing with these kids is how I’m gonna makeup for the shit I did with that other team. I’ll help you train these kids and protect them, and we’ll never kill anyone innocent, ever. If you can’t complete a mission without killing innocent bystanders, then it isn’t a mission we’re gonna do, right Chuck?”

“Right.” Why, oh why, couldn’t he teach this to Erik?

“That’ll be real,” Logan says. He takes his hand off Charles’ head. “Go get some sleep, kid, you look like hell.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Charles manages a reassuring smile, and a nod, before he leaves Logan and takes refuge in his room where he can be alone and think. Then he realizes that’s the worst thing he could do right now.

* * *

 

The only book Erik could find about submarines in Charles’ library was about World War I U-boats. The CIA has supplied more recent information. Moira tracked down two books about the New London Naval Submarine Base, located at Groton, Connecticut which is less than a hundred miles from their mansion in Westchester. He’s already read them - they are more about training and education for naval recruits, rather than the engineering and construction of submarines. He also has a few mimeographed pages about nuclear reactors and a report that he has to read with the aid of a dictionary and an engineering text. His mind is mulling over what Charles said earlier about Shaw wanting a nuclear reactor, even though he has a diesel-electric submarine, and all the horrible things Shaw could do with a nuclear reactor.

Erik stretches out his long legs, his hands behind his head, and examines the ceiling in search of answers. Shaw’s mutation could do terrible things with a nuclear reactor. Erik finds he can think of Shaw’s mutation as long he doesn’t let himself spend too much time thinking about the implications of Shaw being a mutant at all. Mutants should all be on the same side, with humans on the other side. Shaw’s violation of the unwritten rule against harming his own kind has barred him from being on Erik’s side; Shaw is now classified as a human who happens to have a mutation. He doesn’t let himself think through the conundrum any further. He’ll think it through after Shaw is dead.

The ticking of the grandfather clock nearly lulls him to sleep when he senses Charles in his mind.

_Erik?_ The request is shaky, almost timid. It calls to mind the first few times Charles called for Erik, needing his comfort to deal with the fear of being in this house. Erik is instantly on his feet, turning the pages over to mark his place.

_On my way._

Charles’ presence in his mind is so natural these days that Erik has a hard time remembering when he resented his telepathy and ordered him to stay out. Ever since the rescue, Erik has wanted Charles in his mind, or right where he can see him. Perhaps he did go a bit overboard in not letting Charles downstairs or out of his sight for a week. Erik needed the constant reassurance that Charles was right here, Charles was safe, and Shaw couldn’t pop up out of the floor and take Charles away from him again. Charles resisted the closeness - being irritable with Erik for hovering, or throwing his fascination with Logan in his face to taunt him. Charles’ call for him clenches somewhere in his chest, and Erik licks his lips and hurries his steps.

_Erik._ This time it’s more of an invitation, warm with desire that creeps out from the word like tendrils and brings a sense of Charles wanting him.

That hurries his steps even more. This past week, Erik has held Charles, showered with him and washed his hair, but nothing sexual has happened. It’s hard to sustain passion through a coughing fit, and any sudden movements hurt his shoulder. If Charles is feeling randy, . .  well, a grin splits Erik’s face and he’s practically running up the stairs.

Charles meets him at the door and fastens their mouths together as Erik shuts and locks the door with a flick of his power. He slides fingers around Charles’ waist and yanks his shirt out of his waistband to get his hands on bare skin. For a few minutes, they paw at each other’s clothes and suck each other’s tongues. Charles backs Erik up to the wall and presses against him, thigh to thigh, his hands tight on Erik’s hips, thrusting against him. The urgency is so different from their few previous times together that Erik can’t help but ask what brought this on.

_I need to feel, just feel. Get out of my head and feel so much I can’t think anymore,_ Charles replies, the thought both desperate and ragged.

Erik tightens his hold on Charles’ waist, slides his hands down to his ass and pulls him in so firmly that Charles can’t thrust anymore. Erik dodges his mouth to graze his lips over Charles’ ear and sends Charles a vivid fantasy he created during those terrible few days Charles that was gone, and Charles goes limp in his arms with a sound that combines both a moan and a whimper.

“Don’t come yet,” Erik whispers.

Charles turns his head and presses his mouth against Erik’s neck.

Erik walks him over to the bed, with a brief detour to the bathroom to grab a hand towel, pushes Charles down onto the bed, and then strips him efficiently. When Charles tries to return the favor, Erik pushes his hands away and undresses, watching Charles watch him with half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. He drops to the bed and pulls Charles over on top of him, scraping hands down his back to make Charles arch into him. His skin is cool, and Erik warms it with hands and breath, coaxing shivers from the telepath who is twining their minds as Erik twines their bodies.

Charles responds with pressure in all the right places, sharpening the sensations until Erik is groaning with want, clutching any part of Charles that he can reach and rocking into him. It is close and hot and he wants more than he can have because there are times he wishes he could devour Charles entire; nothing else will get him close enough. Tonight, he will have Charles closer than he’s ever had him, and even that is not close enough.

Erik rolls onto his stomach and splays himself out for Charles, biting his lip to keep back the cry when Charles fingers him open. Charles doubles the lube on the second try, and this time Erik doesn’t need to muffle the sounds because it is all pleasure. He gasps, waits, and then rocks backward into Charles’ slow progress to hurry him along. Erik has never let anyone fuck him before. Charles was worth the wait, and Erik wraps his thoughts around Charles’ arousal and strokes him mentally. He’s rewarded with a long, ragged exhale from Charles.

_Erik?_

_More. I want more; I want you closer._

Charles takes him at his word, and stops being so tentative. Erik relishes Charles’ hands at his waist, pulling him back and thrusting in. Charles fills him, body and mind, and Erik draws him in as deeply as he can and holds on.

“Mine, you are mine,” Erik murmurs after he has come but Charles is still thrusting and building up to his own climax. Charles’ cry obscures the words so he doesn’t protest Erik’s possessiveness, which is why Erik timed the declaration as he did. Charles does not want to be owned, but Erik cannot want him less than he does.

Charles collapses with his whole weight on Erik’s back, and Erik drops to the mattress on his stomach. They lie there, bodies still joined, until their breathing slows. Erik eventually shifts to dislodge Charles, who obligingly falls over onto his back. Erik crumples up the hand towel smeared with his own come and tosses it off the bed.

“Clean freak,” Charles mumbles.

“The alternative is to shove you out of bed and change the sheets, but I’d rather do this,” Erik replies, rolling over onto Charles, who has his arms thrown carelessly over his head, thoroughly debauched and rumpled and looking so delicious that Erik wishes he could take him again right now. He strokes fingers down Charles’ face, running his thumb under Charles’ smug smile. He laughs for no reason at all, runs his fingers through his hair to muss it up even more, gives Charles a sloppy kiss and drops onto his own pillow, sweaty and sated.

_If I’m yours, you have to stay._

_You’re the one that disappeared, Charles._

_I meant . . . you know what I mean._

_I’m here, aren’t I? Welcome back,_ Erik replies, and sends Charles the perception he’s had of Charles all week - preoccupied, sick, and wishing Erik would stop hovering.

“I . . . thought you were the one pulling away from me,” Charles replies.

Erik shrugs. “Either way, it’s all good now. We’re good, right?” The last word is almost swallowed by a huge yawn.

“Yes,” Charles says with a deep sigh and a luxurious stretch.

“And I’m glad your shoulder is feeling so much better,” Erik comments, drowsy and already half-asleep.

Next to him, Charles goes very still and, for some reason, breaks the mental link with Erik slowly, like he’s hoping Erik won’t notice. Charles clears his throat a few times and gives an experimental cough.

“Sounds like your congestion has cleared up too,” Erik mumbles, and then his eyes drift shut and he drops off to sleep.


	12. Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warning: The self-harm mentioned in this chapter is not caused by psychological pressure, so I hope it isn't triggering, but I thought I would warn you anyway.

“I’m not hungry this morning! Thank you anyway!” Charles calls out to Erik, who wants to go find something for breakfast. 

“You going to be in there all morning?” Erik grumbles, smacking the closed bathroom door. Charles is so on edge that the sound makes him startle, even though he knew Erik was right there and annoyed with him for hiding out in the bathroom.

“Do you really want details?” Charles replies, not bothering to keep the exasperation out of his voice. The congestion is gone, so he can shout back without worrying about triggering a coughing attack. He stretches his arm above his head, hoping to feel the pain in his shoulder that he hasn’t felt since his mind link with Logan yesterday. Still fine. 

That terrifies him.

Erik doesn’t answer, but Charles hears him leave the room, shutting the bedroom door a little harder than necessary. He knows he knocked Erik off-kilter this morning when he got out of bed before Erik woke up and then avoided all of Erik’s hints to come back to bed and see what might happen. It wasn’t fair of him, especially after the glimpse Erik showed him last night about how distant and preoccupied Charles has been this week. He doesn’t have the patience this morning to be reassuring and focused on Erik though. He’s too scared.

With Erik gone, Charles slips the razor blade out of the drawer. Before he can get nervous by overthinking the situation, he sets the blade against his thigh, just above his knee, and slices. There’s a brief sting, and then blood wells up from the cut. Charles has a handful of tissues that he presses to his leg just below the cut. It keeps bleeding. After a minute, he dabs the damp tissues at the cut itself, wiping the blood away. He waits, and is relieved when the blood begins to well from the cut again. He hasn’t permanently acquired any mutated healing abilities.

He huffs out a hugely relieved breath and sets the blade on the sink. He wipes the blood away a couple more times, just to watch it start bleeding again, before he finally centers a small gauze pad and a band-aid over the cut. In a couple of hours, he’ll come check it again, just to make sure it isn’t healing too fast.

Yesterday, he worried so much about what he was leaving behind in Logan’s unconscious that he didn’t think to worry about what he might have taken with him.

* * *

Charles finds the children gathered in the briefing room, sprawled casually across couches and armchairs. What is it about young folk that makes it so appealing to sit on the arm of the furniture instead of the seat? Then again, he is barely their senior. Perhaps he takes himself too seriously. He bumps Raven off the arm of the couch and takes it for himself, raising his hands to defend himself when she mocks an attack.

“How have you been?” Charles asks.

There is a chorus of replies, eager to tell him about the week with Logan, the latest escapades involving their powers, and an entire litany of excuses about homework. They bombard him with questions about Shaw’s mutation -- Moira has briefed them, mostly so she could caution Alex to never, under any circumstances, send a plasma hoop in Shaw’s direction -- that he answers as well as he can.

“Hank said we’d have our suits today,” Sean reports as the babble dies down. He is the most excited about his suit because Hank has promised him a refined design for gliding.

“Energy diapers,” Alex mutters. 

“Better than blowing your friends up,” Angel says.

“Where is Hank anyway?” Raven asks. “I haven’t seen him since we got home.”

“Working on suits,” Alex says, and the ‘duh’ in his voice goes unsaid.

Charles catches Armando’s eye and they share a wry smile.

“Let’s head down to the lab,” Armando suggests.

The enthusiastic agreement may have something to do with avoiding any questions Charles may have about history papers and math assignments. In the general scramble for the lab, Erik joins them. He meets Charles’ eyes with a smile, and both of them ignore Raven rolling her eyes at them. The two of them lag behind the younger mutants, speaking in low tones about nothing very important, but being close enough to give their fingers a chance to brush together occasionally.  

“Oh, shit,” Alex says, standing at the open door of the lab.

“You said it,” Sean agrees.

“Hank!” Charles shouts out, pushing past the others to get into the room. The lab is in shambles, broken glass and torn paper littering every surface. The wooden pieces of what used to be a chair are scattered next to a table with deep claw marks scarring its surface. The cherry wood mirror that has hung there for generations is smashed, half the glass still clinging to the frame in spiderweb fragments. “Hank! Who attacked? Did anyone hear anything?” Charles is frantic, wondering how his telepathy could have missed the threat of an intruder. Of course, he wasn’t using his telepathy responsibly last night, diving too deeply into Logan’s mind and then muffling his sensitivity with Erik’s body.

The children are stepping around the mess. There’s really nothing to search. No place is big enough to hide anyone, and it’s just a matter of looking at debris, at least until Erik plucks a tuft of blue fur out of a hinge and holds it up.

“Should we look at it under a microscope or something?” Sean suggests.

“No need.” It’s Hank’s voice, soft and hopeless.

“Hank?” Charles follows the voice to the far corner of the room, where a blue-furred creature is sitting on the floor, head down on his knees. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

The blue-furred creature is wearing Hank’s glasses and speaking with Hank’s voice, though somewhat deeper than it used to be.

Charles kneels on the floor next to him, the rest of them gathering behind him.

“The mutant cure doesn’t work,” Hank says.

“Wow,” Raven breathes out, dropping down to sit by him, her cream skin rippling back to blue. She reaches out to touch his furry head. Hank’s eyes follow her fingers, and close when she makes contact.

“I got a new name for you,” Alex says. “Beast.”

Hank actually  _ growls. _

“No man, it’s awesome!” Alex says.

Hank stands up. The blue-furred version of Hank doesn’t seem to be any taller than the skinny and shy version of Hank, but with the added bulk, he seems bigger.

“You’ve never looked better,” Erik says.

Hank’s hand shoots out and grabs Erik by the throat, easily lifting him off his feet. Erik grabs his fingers, choking.

“Put him down!” Charles shouts.

It takes a few seconds, but Hank puts Erik down. “Don’t make fun of me,” he growls.

“I wasn’t,” Erik replies, rubbing his throat.

Hank’s eyes dart between them, trying to decide if they mean it.

“Blue!” Raven exclaims throatily, and hugs Hank.

The look Hank shoots at Charles is tentative, and Charles wonders if Hank is asking for permission to hug Raven back. His hands are floating above her shoulders.

“Hug me back you big idiot! I’m so excited you’re blue too!”

Hank’s hands come down on Raven’s shoulders, then her back. Charles looks away. Hank is a decent sort and all that, but Raven is his younger sister, and it’s indecent to watch her be embraced by someone who has been pining after her for months now.

“Hey, what about the suits?” Sean asks.

Charles is skimming through the emotional reactions. Hank is easy to read - he’s tentative about believing the group might accept his blue form and hoping the effect of the drugs he injected will wear off. Raven is excited; Alex and Erik are impressed; Sean just wants to fly; Armando is wondering how soon he and Hank can have a throw-down to test their strength against each other; and Angel wants to get out of here before anything else strange can happen.

Charles really needs to sit down with Angel sometime soon.

The rest of the morning passes in the excitement of the suits, after a few comments on the colors Hank chose, and they suit up and go out on the grounds for practice. Logan finds them there, along with Moira, and they act as audience for all of them as they shout out variations of ‘watch me next!’ and ‘look what I can do!’ Even Erik, who tries to remain detached, is experimenting with the levitation capabilities of his new suit, which Hank has woven through with metal threads. Every time Erik gets more than ten feet off the ground, Sean manages to swoop over and buzz him, then bank off, laughing at having put one over on Erik again.

Charles wonders if Erik will ever tell Sean he’s sorry for pushing him off the satellite and end this grudge Sean is apparently willing to hold for the rest of his life. Then again, maybe he doesn’t mind it, Charles thinks as Erik braces for the next flyby and sends Sean tumbling with just a wave of his hand. 

Moira and Logan are talking, and Charles joins them, keeping one eye on the mayhem going on around him. He’s wearing a blue and yellow suit too, but his has no specific adaptations to his mutation.

There is a loud ‘whoosh’ and then a crack as a thick branch from a hundred-year-old oak tree splits off and falls to the ground. “Did you see that!” Alex shouts. “Pinpoint accuracy! That’s exactly what I was aiming for!”

“Right, you meant to hit the tree over there,” Raven says. “Hey, Angel, catch me!” Raven jumps as Angel flies past and grabs her hands. Angel flies with Raven dangling for a few yards, and then drops her. Raven whoops on the landing.

“I’ve got security clearance for Team X. You really can’t tell me what you folks are planning?” Logan is saying to Moira.

“Not until my superiors clear it. The military clearance doesn’t translate directly into CIA clearance. I think we’ve established that the branches of government don’t communicate all that well,” Moira replies.

“If that Shaw character gets his hands on a nuclear reactor, you people better start talking to each other pretty damn quick,” Logan comments with a shrug.

Moira shoots Charles a sharp look.

“I plucked it out of his head; he didn’t say anything. Your clearance rules don’t forbid telepathic communications, do they?” Logan says.

“No, we have yet to update clearance and disclosure rules to forbid telepathy,” Moira replies drily.

Logan grins at her. “Loophole!”

Moira smiles back at him against her will. 

Erik drops in on them, literally. Charles feels the fillings in his teeth ache as the magnetic field directs Erik down into their group. When his feet touch the ground, Erik’s hands relax, and the feeling of concentrated magnetism dissipates.

“Enjoying yourself?” Charles asks, though the look of restrained delight on Erik’s face makes the question unnecessary.

“Why aren’t you practicing with your suit?” Erik asks.

“Mine has no special capabilities.”

“We should practice emergency evacuation techniques with you, don’t you think? Only prudent, and all that. Logan, you still thinking you’re Charles’ bodyguard?”

Before anyone has a chance to answer, Logan has swept Charles up in his arms and is levitating to the top of the mansion. Logan is cussing a blue streak in Erik’s general direction and Charles is adding his own exclamations both verbally and telepathically. Erik lands next to them on the roof with a toothy grin, looking far too pleased with himself. “I just needed to know if that would work as well as I thought it would. It’s always nice to be right.”

Cheerful Erik is every bit as unpredictable and dangerous as brooding Erik.

“You damned idiot! You don’t throw me around like that!” Logan’s first act once Erik gives him control of his body back is to drop Charles and take a swing at Erik. Charles scrabbles on the shingles, terrified that he’s going to slide off the roof.

Logan is as surprised as any of them when the punch lands. He didn’t have his claws out, but Erik is reeling backwards from the force of the blow, hands to his face.

“What the hell? Like you didn’t see that one coming? Why’d you let me hit you?” Logan demands, yanking Erik’s hands away from his face to assess the damage. His fingers move Erik’s jaw and squeeze his nose, checking for broken bones.

“I didn’t . . .” Erik yanks his face away from Logan’s examination and doesn’t finish the sentence, but Charles picks it up telepathically.

_ I didn’t let you hit me. _ Along with it comes Erik’s surprise that Logan got past his power, because Erik had seen that punch coming and couldn’t stop it.

“Logan!” Charles cries out, and Logan reaches Charles in one step and hauls him to his feet and away from the edge of the roof.

There are voices coming from thirty feet below them. Moira and the team of mutants are gathered on the grounds. Angel lands next to them, looking curiously at Erik, who is sitting on the roof, probing at his face. 

“Erik, could you get us back down?” Charles asks, and then wonders if Erik can.

“Come here,” Logan says, reaching for Charles. Charles doesn’t want to be carried, but even less does he want to be thrown over Logan’s shoulder, not with everyone watching. Logan puts an arm around his waist and tells him to step on his feet. That preserves his dignity better than a piggyback ride or, worse, another bridal carry.

Charles doesn’t want to question Erik’s abilities, but he also doesn’t want to fall thirty feet to the lawn below. Logan bounces a couple of times in Erik’s control, apparently as a test. When Erik does levitate them over the edge of the roof, it is in a slow and steady descent down to the lawn where they land gently next to Moira.

“That is an effective evacuation technique,” Moira says with approval.

Charles gives her a weak smile.

“What happened to you?” is Moira’s next question as Erik lands next to them.

“I ran into a chimney,” Erik says shortly. “I’m going to get some ice.” He walks away from the group.

Angel lands next to them, with a quizzical look at Charles that he ignores. 

“Sean, get back up to the roof. I want you to go for distance this time. See how far you can glide. Alex, let me choose your next target. Armando, have you tried swimming yet? Let’s see how your suit adapts to your mutation underwater. Let’s go, people.” Charles steps back into teaching to defuse the nervousness he feels about what happened on the roof. 

He can’t help but worry that it might have been his fault.  

* * *

 

The next morning, Erik goes for a run outside. The trees have turned color, brilliant reds and yellows providing a frame to the green, manicured lawns. This castle is sometimes too grand to believe, with its dark oiled wood, stately portraits and the endless grounds. It’s the right setting for Charles, confident and charming, his generosity as endless as the estate. Sometimes Erik feels like he’s been whisked away from his real life into this fairy tale where beauty and love dangle before him like ripe fruit, and he doesn’t know if they’re real, or just bait in a trap that will disappear the instant he lets go of the one reality that has defined his life so long. Charles keeps making him choose between him and Shaw, and Erik doesn’t know how many more times he can choose Charles, and still keep his vow to kill Shaw.

Once he reaches the edge of the lawn, Erik runs into the trees, following the crushed gravel path. Within a few minutes, sounds of chaos and violence grow louder than Erik’s breathing and the crunch of his shoes on the gravel. Logan bellows to watch out, keep your head down, what the hell are you thinking, get back up you wuss. Erik hears grunts and branches creaking. Hank’s blue fur is the first thing Erik glimpses through the trees, and then Armando’s dark skin as he ricochets off the trees. He looks like he’s gliding, and Erik wonders if Armando’s mutation would give him wings if Erik pushes him off a satellite dish. He should try it.

Erik slows to a stop, and bends over to put his hands on his knees, which makes the blood rush to the bruise on his face and throb. Logan’s blow landed on his cheek; his eye isn’t black, but there is a faint mark along his swollen cheekbone. Hank drops out of the tree and greets him, his polite manners incongruous with his fierce appearance. Armando looks at him warily, and then his gaze goes to Logan. Erik doesn’t look at Logan before he picks him up and throws him. Logan falls back out of the tree, rolling as he hits the ground and comes up in a crouch, ready to attack. Erik freezes him right there, claws halfway out, and then forces those claws back into his hands, with Logan cursing him out at the top of his lungs. When Erik freezes his jaw shut, Logan curses him through clenched teeth. Erik can’t immobilize his vocal cords.

Hank and Armando look back and forth between them. Armando moves as if to intervene, and then thinks better of it.

For several long seconds, Erik holds him there, his power coursing through the metal in Logan’s body, studying it and searching for a reason why Logan can’t break his hold this morning. He can’t find anything different. Still breathing hard from his run, Erik locks eyes with Logan. He can’t hate the man who rescued Charles from Shaw before Charles was subjected to more tests and torture, though he wants to. Logan has jumped into this life on Graymalkin Lane more easily than Erik has, enthusiastically throwing himself into Charles’ plans without needing to be coaxed and convinced. There is a fear growing in Erik’s mind that Logan could replace him. 

Still, he’s re-established the fact that he can stop Logan in his tracks and hold him there. Erik turns his back and walks away, leaving Logan immobilized. If his power has returned to its normal parameters, Logan will be able to move once Erik is close to the house. And if not, Armando can come ask for help. The sounds of Logan shouting obscene insults at him as he walks away makes him smile. He knows the impotent rage of the helpless, and it is better to be on this end of it. 

Erik enters the house through a side entrance. He feels Charles’s mental touch, searching for him, so he calls back. Charles finds him by the east sitting room.

“Oh, you were on your way to shower,” Charles comments.

Erik shrugs. “What did you need?” He steps into the room to sit down and massage the cramp out of his calf.

“Moira said the CIA lab has finished their analysis of the helmet, and we’ll be hearing their report this morning.”

“They should have given the helmet to Hank in the first place,” Erik replies.

“What have you been up to?” Charles asks suspiciously. He sits down opposite Erik and quirks those arched eyebrows down in disapproval.

“Reading my mind, are you?”

“You’re gloating rather loudly.”

“Just fine-tuning a few aspects of my mutation.”

“Erik, he’s done nothing to hurt you! I know you’re not the welcoming committee by any means, but there’s no need to target Logan for special helpings of humiliation, especially in front of the other mutants. You know I’ve been trying to teach them to use their powers only when ethical to do so, which means not harassing each other with displays that have no other purpose than to try and one-up each other. I expect this from the children, but even among them, the competition is fairly good-natured, but no one can accuse you and Logan of a friendly rivalry. I don’t want to be forced to rebuke you officially, Erik. I may be the professor, but it’s always been obvious that you’re not simply another one of my students, but your behavior may undermine discipline and morale both.”

Charles keeps rattling on like that. Erik absorbs the lecture as his due. His attention, however, is fixed a few feet above Charles’ head, where a family portrait done in oils hangs. It depicts Brian Xavier, standing with his hand on Sharon Xavier’s shoulder. On her lap is a young Charles, painted with a smile and bright blue eyes, eager for the world as any toddler should be. 

Logan can’t die; Logan thinks everything about Charles is marvelous; Logan calls Charles stupid nicknames like ‘kid’ and ‘Chuck’ and Charles likes it. It is so obvious that Charles has adopted the man as a father figure that Erik wonders why it’s taken him this long to figure it out. 

Elbows on his knees and head in his hands, Erik lets himself think of his own father. He didn’t see Jakob die. His father had walked away from him, prodded along by a Nazi holding a gun, and the final interaction with his father had been to look at him, and see the thin, scared face of his father nodding at him in approval one last time. Erik’s vengeance is focused on his mother’s death, but that is only because he doesn’t know who killed his father. He should know. He should find the records of the concentration camp and open them up and find out which guard shot his father, or which guard forced him out to work when he was sick and so caused him to drop dead during slave labor, or which guard denied him food and let him starve to death. The Germans wouldn’t have kept records like that. The death of another Jew wouldn’t have been noted in any record at all. His father would have died nameless and unknown. Erik will never be able to honor his final moments, or swear revenge against the individual responsible, or know that the world is safe because his father will protect him. 

“Erik? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so angry at you.”

Charles is on his knees before Erik, hands wrapped around his wrists and trying to pull them away from his head. That is when Erik realizes his face is wet with tears. Has he ever taken the time to grieve his father?

Charles has a father again.

Erik abruptly stands up. He won’t allow himself to be comforted, especially not by Charles, who thinks a father can be replaced. “I won’t hurt him. I won’t promise to like him, but I won’t hurt him.”

Charles stands up too. “You tried to stop him from hitting you. Yesterday on the roof. You tried and you couldn’t do it.”

“I was distracted on the roof, that’s all, I didn’t see it coming. That’s why I did what I did this morning. I needed to know if I could control the metal in him the way I can control any metal. It was an experiment with my power, Charles, surely you can approve of that.” Erik tells part of the truth, but he holds himself aloof as he does so, watching the concern on Charles’ face turn to sadness as Erik shuts him out. The lie is the part about being distracted - Erik can stop bullets; a fist that moves no faster than muscle couldn’t have gotten past his power.

Charles doesn’t press the issue, though he should have. Did he sense that Erik is disturbed that Charles would allow Logan to fill the void left by Brian Marko’s death? Why wouldn’t he say something, even if he has to dip into Erik’s mind to learn it? Charles is allowing this distance to grow between them. He is supposed to fight for Erik harder than this.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Erik says, and turns to go, avoiding the hand Charles has raised as if to rest it on Erik’s shoulder. 

Halfway to the door, he turns back. Charles stands where Erik left him, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched. The beauty and love may be ephemeral, but Erik has never doubted the reality of Charles’ pain. In three strides, Erik returns to Charles and pulls him into a full embrace. Erik tightens his arms around him until the tension drains out of Charles and he relaxes in Erik’s arms. When Erik lets go and steps back, Charles gives him that shy smile he keeps only for Erik, the one that admits how much Charles needs him, so Erik palms the side of his face before he leaves to take a shower.

With the hot water running down his bare body and his hair full of soap, it’s hard to remember why he wants to dislike Logan at all, and Shaw seems far away. Charles swells in his thoughts until Erik wonders why he is so afraid to make that final choice and leave Shaw behind once and for all. Charles and the castle aren’t a fairy tale; it’s Shaw who is nothing but a ghost story.


	13. Helmet

Charles passes the morning by looking over the history paper Sean produced on the causes of World War I, and trying to puzzle out how Armando’s geometry proof reached the correct answer without any recognizable intervening steps. It’s pleasantly mundane, unconnected to telepathy, mutations, or the impending end of the world. He’s caught too much from Moira’s argument with Logan to believe that Shaw is going to stay out of sight for much longer, but it has been a nice respite. 

Angel refuses to do any school work at all, relying on that fear about the world ending. His pencil pauses above Armando’s proof, wishing he’d found the time to talk to Angel. She certainly isn’t making it easy to sit down for a serious conversation; she avoids him, and he hasn’t tracked her down and insisted she talk to him. There are so many other crises to concentrate on, though Erik was unexpectedly reassuring this morning, despite Charles lecturing him about Logan. He smiles to himself, that shy smile that only Erik calls from him. Perhaps those particular concerns about Erik and Logan will work themselves out and he can move on to other worries.

Raven’s cellular biology lessons with Hank have produced only a diagram of a cell that is both crude and elementary. Charles wonders whether she really doesn’t understand biology, or if she’s venting her frustration with Charles ordering her around by feigning incompetence. He will have to ask Hank. 

Charles tosses Raven’s diagram towards the outbox and picks up Alex’s book report on Ray Bradbury’s  _ Fahrenheit 451. _ He’d assigned that particular book to Alex because it’s short, and he hoped it wouldn’t be too challenging for Alex, who is angry about how far behind he is academically. Alex dropped out of school when his mutation manifested. It turns out that Alex approves of a society where books are outlawed and burned because then it won’t matter that he can’t read very well. Charles sighs and decides to stop looking at school work.

He presses his fingers to the spot on his leg covered with a band-aid, and welcomes the sting. It isn’t healing any faster than normal. He wonders if his shoulder injury and congestion really did clear up on their own, and it was only a coincidence that he’d explored Logan’s mutation at around the same time his body healed. Perhaps he’s creating worries where there aren’t any. Either way, it doesn’t look like he’s caused any permanent changes, and that’s the important point.

With that worry set aside, Charles’ thoughts turn towards the helmet that is on its way to the mansion. Charles is curious about how they blocked his telepathy. But on another level, he isn’t sure he wants to know it can be done, or how. Back when Hank first told Charles that he was working on a mutant cure, Charles encouraged it, not least because Raven, or maybe even Alex, would benefit from it. People should be able to choose their own destiny, and if someone wants to choose to turn off a mutation, they should have the option. 

Having his own mutation involuntarily stifled has changed his thinking. The mutant cure might not remain an option; it might be forced upon some at the will of others. Or perhaps not forced, perhaps it will only be suggestions and persuasions, again and again, until he has to capitulate and agree to wear the helmet more often than not, only removing it after asking for permission and for limited periods of time when someone else thinks telepathy is briefly necessary. 

If wearing the helmet means Raven likes to be around him again, would he wear it? If Erik is more comfortable knowing Charles can’t get into his mind, would he wear it? What if the CIA tells Moira that Charles is only welcome at planning meetings if he wears the helmet? Does the CIA want him at this meeting just for discussion? Or will they ‘suggest’ he wear the helmet? Likely they would have put some cushioning in it to reassure him that it wouldn’t hurt this time. They would make the strap adjustable, so he can take it off to shower and sleep. They aren’t monsters, after all, only humans.

He’s gotten paranoid. Erik is rubbing off on him. All these months, Charles has been thinking that Erik is mistaken in his assumptions and needs to give humanity a chance to do the right thing. He’s been so dismissive of Erik’s dire predictions. It only took three days with a helmet sealed on his head to shake his naiveté. He didn’t used to think of it as naiveté; he used to think it was optimism and faith in mankind’s better nature. It would be more than naiveté, it would be outright stupidity to think that humanity wouldn’t stop him from being a telepath if they had any way at all to do it. 

Charles still has his head down on his folded arms when he senses a group of people coming towards his office. He stands up, finger combs his hair, straightens his shirt underneath the cardigan where it has rucked up in the back, and puts on his most confident smile before he goes to meet them.

It isn’t only Moira and Levene this time, Oliver has come too. Charles relaxes a bit. Oliver thinks his ‘magic tricks’ are fascinating rather than frightening, and Moira has mentioned that he’s spoken up on the mutants’ behalf while Moira has been here at the mansion with them. There’s no one else from the CIA, so the scientists who examined the helmet must not have enough clearance to know about the mutant program and their location. 

Hank is approaching from the other direction, with Logan. “Let’s meet in the lab,” he suggests. Since Charles has returned, Hank has become more assertive. Charles isn’t sure if the change is because he’s now blue and bulky, or because of Logan’s training. 

Oliver and Levene look taken aback, and Charles hears Moira whisper, “That’s Hank. I told you about the unexpected results when he tested the mutant cure.”

Hank’s growl is so soft that Charles isn’t sure he’s heard it with his ears or his telepathy.

The lab has been cleaned up. The only evidence of Hank’s violence the night he tested the cure are a few claw marks on the table and a darker spot on the wallpaper, where the broken mirror has been removed but not replaced. Erik is already there, and he stands up when they arrive and returns his book about the molecular structure of metals to the shelf, then seats himself again. Levene and Oliver exchange glances, but neither one of them suggest Erik leave. No one suggests Logan leave either. Moira may have said something to the agents.

Oliver sets a locked case on the table while they all take seats around the specimen table that doubles as a conference table and opens it with a key. He lifts out the helmet and hands it to Erik, who begins to examine it with hands, eyes and magnifying glass. “Mr. Lehnsherr, tell me about this metal.”

Logan answers first, explaining the origins of adamantium.

To Charles’ surprise, Erik waits for Logan to finish describing the meteorite before adding his own analysis. “While the adamantium is solid when it’s an ore, it’s liquid when blended with carbon and tungsten to form the alloy on the helmet. Once it hardens, it can’t be tempered, machined or otherwise manipulated because reheating it doesn’t return it to a liquid state. It’s strength comes from the tetrahedrally bonded adamantium atoms, which mimics the crystal lattice structure found in diamonds, though with adamantium atoms replacing the carbon atoms, it’s possible adamantium is harder than diamond.”

“What happens if you heat it back up?” Logan asks.

“Nothing,” Erik replies.

“If you heat it enough, like about 1600 degrees, the carbon atoms would eventually break the chemical bond and burst into flame,” Hank puts in. Everyone turns to look at him. “Which defeats tempering.”

“True enough,” Erik agrees drily.

Oliver flips through the report he’s holding and shrugs. Charles assumes that Logan, Erik and Hank have already proven they know more about adamantium than the CIA’s scientist.

“How did it block Chuck’s telepathy?” Logan asks, leaning forward and taking the report from the table in front of Oliver before he can snatch it back.

“It wasn’t the adamantium that blocked his telepathy,” Hank says. He turns over the helmet to expose the interior. There is a faceted reflective surface fit into the underside of the helmet with a diamond the size of a quarter at the apex. Just the look of that sharp diamond makes the crown of Charles’ head hurt again.

“Our scientists analyzed a sample of the reflective material,” Levene said. He points to a tiny gap where a piece has been carefully excised from the edge. 

Charles wishes they hadn’t taken so much care to keep the helmet largely intact. He’s a bit queasy right now, and focuses on taking deep breaths. 

Levene flips open his copy of the report. “Ordinary glass is silica based. This material has less silicon dioxide than glass, and the crystalline structure is closer to ceramic than glass. The reflective property is inherent in the structure of the molecules, rather than being a coating. This substance has a foreign element in it that our scientists were unable to classify. We hypothesize that the unknown element is what blocked Dr. Xavier’s telepathy.”

The more syllables it takes to admit you have no clue, the more you save face.

“I’ll run some tests,” Hank volunteers. He’s almost salivating, he’s so desperate to run tests on an unknown substance.

“On a molecular level, the diamond-like structure is characterized by the carbon-lattice structure of a true diamond. However, the unexpected presence of crystallized erythrocytes bonded to the lattice in a hitherto unseen configuration prevents classification as a true diamond. The analysis of the crystallized erythrocytes requires a specialized culturing medium that our lab was unable to create within the time parameters given,” Logan reads aloud. “Crystallized erythrocytes? What the hell? Your people are claiming there are blood cells in that diamond? You’re dealing with another mutant, then, ordinary humans can’t crystallize their blood cells and turn them into diamonds.”

Charles knew that Logan is smarter than most people assume, but the rest of them exchange surprised looks. 

“Shaw’s telepath!” Erik says, reaching over to shake Charles’ arm. “She turned to crystal right before she threw me off the yacht!”

“She blocked my telepathy that night,” Charles says. “Her entire power is reflective.”

“Her name is Emma,” Logan adds. When they all turn to look at him, he shrugs and adds, “in case you didn’t know.”

Hank is still scrawling notes. When Levene reaches over to retrieve the helmet, Hank moves it out of his reach, still writing.

“Do you think the foreign element in the reflective substance could be from that other telepath too?” Oliver posits.

“She can extend her telepathic abilities using substances made with her blood?” Charles asks, halfway under his breath. He’s never thought to try anything so audacious.

“At least we know the stuff can’t be mass produced,” Logan comments.

“Unless it can be duplicated in the laboratory and then manufactured,” Hank says, turning the page of his notebook and continuing to write.

Charles carefully folds his hands in front of him and does not press his lips together or swallow hard. Instead, he continues to look interested and unengaged, like this is all just academic and not at all threatening. He’s so busy looking like he’s not bothered that the shock and horror in Erik’s widened eyes and open lips catches him by surprise. Charles touches his temple and dips into Erik’s mind, just a bit, just to make sure that Erik isn’t going to destroy something necessary to the structural integrity of the room.

_ Why did I think I was the only mutant that Shaw experimented on? _

_ Shaw had those drugs that muted my telepathy, _ Charles reminds him.

_ What if she isn’t an accomplice? What if she’s a prisoner? _ Erik’s mind-tone bites off the words, adding another outrage to his hatred of Shaw.

_ More like a disciple, I’d say. She told Shaw ‘no’ when he told her to wipe my memories and he just shrugged it off. That’s not what you do when a prisoner tells you no. _

Charles did not deliberately link Logan into the conversation, but that observation came from him.

They’ve missed a few minutes of the conversation among the others. Charles takes his fingers from his temple as he realizes they’re all looking at him, and Moira looks worried.

“Not if he doesn’t want to,” Moira says.

“I think we need to know if the helmet is still effective,” Levene insists. “It will help focus the research. Right now, we just have Dr. Xavier’s recollections of the phenomenon; if he could demonstrate for us now, it adds to the information. That’s all.” Levene sits back, satisfied he’s presented his case.

“You want Chuck to wear that helmet again?” Logan asks.

“Only if he wants to,” Moira repeats.

Now Charles can’t avoid swallowing hard. Of course he can’t refuse, not if it’s just for research purposes. It will only be for a few minutes; they’re not suggesting he wear it forever. 

At least not this time. 

“Give it here,” Charles says, his voice steady.

Logan puts out his hand and Hank hands him the helmet to pass along to Charles. Logan closes his fist and punches the interior, shattering the reflective surfaces. He sets the helmet down on the table and begins picking fragments out of his hand. “Well, damn, that’s too bad.”

The helmet crumples, further shattering the reflective substance, and then pieces of metal fall off in sections with the steel separating from the adamantium until there is only a small sheet of adamantium around the diamond. In the space of a second, the adamantium pulls tighter and tighter until, with a soft pop, the diamond dissolves into powder and spills out from the gaps in the adamantium vise. 

“It appears the mutant diamond is not as strong as adamantium,” Erik says dispassionately, “that should be a useful fact.”

“What the hell!” Levene shouts at them, getting to his feet.

“You will not benefit from mutant experimentation,” Erik shouts back, also getting to his feet. “You will not use mutant experimentation to affect the mutation of another mutant. You will not experiment on us!”

The metal in the room is humming, which keeps Levene from doing something suicidal, like arguing with Erik. 

Hank is eyeing the small pile of powdered diamond, wanting to scoop it into a specimen tube. 

A thought pops into Charles’ head, and he must act on it immediately because it is more important than the CIA, science, and saving the world put together. He stands up. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Logan glances at him, but the others are speaking too intensely with each other to notice Charles leaving.

Dipping into his telepathy, Charles searches the house and grounds and finds Raven near the gardener’s shed where she’s set up different items for Sean to scream at to practice changing frequencies.

_ Raven! _

_ Get out of my head, Charles! _

Charles gets out of Raven’s head, but he doesn’t slow his pace.

“Raven!” he shouts when he can see her.

“Hey, professor! Come see what we’ve learned!” Sean says, but Charles doesn’t care about what Sean has to say.

Raven is blue and naked. Her blue and yellow suit is tossed over a rock wall. “It itches,” she says defensively when Charles glances over at it.

“Then you should take it off,” Charles says. He’s close enough to reach out and take Raven by the upper arms and give her a shake. “You’re beautiful. I’ve never told you that, but you are beautiful, whatever color you are. Don’t wear the suit if it itches. Don’t wear anything at all if you don’t want. You’re beautiful, and anyone who can’t see that is a moron. That includes me, but as of two minutes ago, I’m no longer a moron.”

“Charles?”

Charles had expected Raven to say something snarky, but instead she looks like she’s going to cry.

“I’m sorry I made you hide who you were. I was afraid of how people would treat you, and I didn’t see how I was treating you.”

Raven has gotten her face back under control. Someone who can change faces at will doesn’t have to look like she’s on the verge of tears unless she wants to. Instead she’s angry now. She raises her fists and hits Charles on the shoulders, but not very hard, just enough to make a point. Then she keeps hitting him, and Charles doesn’t move away.

“You were such an ass! Every time! I hated you for making me hate myself, and then I hated myself that you could make me hate myself!”

Charles nods, and he’s going to try and say something, but then Raven drops her mental shields entirely at the same time she stops hitting him and grabs his face in her hands. He’s suddenly in her mind, and she’s throwing a kaleidoscope of images at him, memories of how hard it was to always wear someone else’s face and wish her own face were enough for him. He sees himself from Raven’s point of view, smug and proper, so sure that Raven should obey him. Damn, but he’s an arrogant prick.

_ Yes, you are. _

_ You don’t have to agree with me, _ Charles points out.

_ Why not? Aren’t you always right? _

Charles can’t help but laugh, and then Raven laughs but her mouth twists up at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers.

Raven shifts her arms from his face to around his shoulders and now she’s hugging him. It’s awkward, because she’s naked and she’s his sister and he isn’t sure where it’s proper to put his hands. Raven starts laughing, but there isn’t the threat of tears anymore.  _ You can be a prude about me being naked as long as the color of my skin isn’t a problem for you anymore. _

_ Really? _

_ Yeah, you’d freak out about anyone being naked, so that’s nothing personal. _

Charles throws prudery to the wind and hugs his sister back. The mind-talk and the sense of Raven in his head is like coming home. He’d recognize her brashness anywhere, but now there is something underneath it. Raven hasn’t told him to get out of her head, so he looks it over and finds that it is relief and happiness, rather more vulnerable than he would have expected from his tough and mouthy sister.

_ Stupid. I’m relieved you finally like me the way I am. It’s been so hard to be careful around you all these years. What made you finally wise up? _

_ I’m sorry. _ It seems like he should say that as often as Raven needs to hear it.  _ I recently dealt with people who wanted me to hide my mutation as well, and my friends defended my right to be who I am. I haven’t done that for you, at least not until now. _

“Um, I’m going to go see if anyone made cookies in the past couple hours,” Sean says.

Charles had forgotten he was there.

“Is this totally awkward for you, Banshee? Because I can kiss him too,” Raven says.

“You will not!” Charles insists.

“Now I really am getting as far away from you two as I can.” Sean puts action to words and runs off.

“Ha!” Raven shouts triumphantly, as if she’s accomplished something impressive.

“You’re not really going to kiss me,” Charles says, and it’s not a question.

Raven grabs his head again, and her mutation includes strength so Charles doesn’t have much choice but to let her, and she plants a noisy kiss on his forehead. 

“Raven!” Charles protests, glad that Sean didn’t witness that.

An arm still around his shoulders, Raven marches them off towards the house. “Come on, Charles, let’s go see if someone sprouted a cookie making mutation and harass Sean some more. He goes even redder than you when he blushes. That’s like a superpower, right? You glow in the dark or something like that. How does Erik like that effect? Don’t give me that look. Do you two really think you’re hiding anything? Not from me, you aren’t, you big brother of mine.” Raven pinches his cheek, which makes Charles squint and fail to come up with anything intelligent to say. 

She hasn’t put any mental shields back up, and every so often a thought from her pops into Charles’ head, like they used to do when they were younger, before Raven banned him from reading her mind. Before he started nagging her to hide her blue form all the time. Charles wonders why this is the first time he’s noticed that those two things were linked. For a mindreader with a Ph.D, he can be remarkably slow on the uptake.

* * *

 

Sadly, no one has developed a cookie making mutation in the past couple of hours, and so the only food in the kitchen is sandwich fixings and juice. Sean is rummaging through the fridge, piling up an armful of pickles, egg salad and barbecue sauce.

“You two are done with all that brother-sister bonding weirdness, right?” he asks cautiously.

“Yes, and I wanted to talk to you about your essay about the causes of World War I,” Charles replies in his most professorial voice.

“Neat,” Raven says, getting bread out of the cupboard.

“You know what was totally weird about World War I? The causes were pretty much the same as the causes for every other war Europe has had - you know all those fights between the Hapsburgs and the Austro-Hungarian Empire and all those other countries. It was the technology that totally changed that whole war. I mean, the War of the Roses and the Hundred Years War and all those other European wars were just as lame, but they couldn’t wipe out entire populations and drag every country in the world into their spit fight because they didn’t have a way to communicate all over the world so fast, and their weapons couldn’t kill more than one person at a time,” Sean said. It appears he’s going to put barbecue sauce on egg salad.

“Deep,” Raven comments, taking two pickles and handing one to Charles.

“That wasn’t in your essay,” Charles says, biting into the pickle. 

Sean shrugs. “You just asked me to write about the causes, not the level of destruction. I thought it was pretty wild that good communication is part of the reason the war spread so fast. Like, if you had to take every message on horseback, no way could they have dragged so many other countries into their war.”

“Good communication can destroy civilization,” Raven comments flippantly. “Better be careful, Charles.”

“Yeah, can you even imagine how much chaos it would cause if you could know everything that was happening all over the world? Nothing would ever have a chance to settle down before everyone was reacting to it. Instant war, all the time,” Sean says, waving a spoonful of egg salad at them. “Telephones are the worst, I’m telling you.”

“Good communication could also calm things down. Being able to find out immediately what is going on could explain situations and defuse tensions,” Charles points out.

“Yeah, because angry people like to talk,” Raven says seriously, and then bursts out laughing.

“But it’s the weapons that are the game-changer. Nuclear bombs, man? Our next war is going to wipe out the world if we don’t learn to fight wars in a different way,” Sean says. Yes, he has spread barbecue sauce on his egg salad sandwich.

“Fight wars in a different way,” Charles echoes.

“Yeah, like there have to be different rules now. All these nuclear bombs and stuff are getting crazy. It’s like we think if we can bomb your country totally flat, you won’t attack us first. How stupid is that? Being able to destroy the world isn’t nearly as impressive as it used to be, since so many people can do it now,” Sean says.

“Stalemates are going to be the new peace,” Raven says.

“We avoid war because we’re afraid of each other, not because we actually get along,” Charles reflects, trying out the idea.

“Yeah, who cares if the Hapsburgs hate the Ottomans? Just don’t drag us into your hate-fest. That’s all I’m asking, dude. Leave me out of it.” Sean is devouring his egg salad and barbecue sandwich like he actually enjoys the taste. 

“Do you know, I think that’s actually quite profound,” Charles says, washing pickle juice off his fingers. “Stalemates are better than war.”

“Charles, you really just figured that out?” Raven’s expression is all sorts of exasperated.

“Well, I had thought we could all genuinely respect each other and work together,” Charles defends himself.

“That’s what you thought you were hoping for? Respect? When you didn’t even want me to be blue? That’s not respect, Charles, that’s appeasement. Stalemates at least mean you’re equal because you’re both afraid of each other,” Raven says, her voice flat.

“I don’t know that appeasement is the right word, exactly,” Charles replies, but he doesn’t have a strong argument to defend himself. On further reflection, it occurs to him that Raven might be right. He has been trying to appease the humans into liking mutants by assuring them that mutants are non-threatening. Being likable and non-threatening no longer seems like a strong position.

“You want us to  _ not _ look like mutants so we don’t freak out the humans. How is that  _ not _ appeasement?” Raven demands.

“I just thought if the humans knew we weren’t threatening,” Charles trails off.

Sean chokes on his sandwich with something between a snort and a guffaw.

“Charles! News flash! We  _ are _ threatening! Dude, what planet are you from?” Raven reaches out to shake his shoulder. “Have you seen what Erik can do? What Sean can do? What I can do? Hell, Charles, have you seen what  _ you _ can do? What sane person wouldn’t be threatened by that?”

Charles is caught off guard, not by Raven’s vehemence, but by the fact that he agrees with her. He didn’t agree with her two days ago. 

“Professor, no offense or anything, but you don’t have much survival instinct. You’re way too nice, but that just means people feel bad about telling you that you’re still threatening,” Sean says politely.

“Survival instinct,” Charles trails off in horror, erasing his expression when Sean and Raven give him curious looks. “Could you excuse me? I walked out of a meeting earlier, and I ought to go back and see how things are progressing.”

Charles hurries out of the kitchen as fast as he can without running, but he doesn’t return to the lab and the meeting with the CIA about the helmet. Instead, he ducks into a storage closet and sits down on a wooden crate of cleaning supplies. His fingers find the roughness of the band-aid on his leg and he pushes down hard. It stings. Not healed yet. But his hands are shaking and the only thing he can think of is diving too deeply into Logan’s mind and discovering that Logan’s mutation is an overwhelming survival instinct coded into him on a cellular level.

Just how much did he take from Logan? 

* * *

 

Logan watches Charles hurry out of the room, away from the crushed remains of the helmet, though no one else seems to notice. Erik is yelling at Levene about mutant experimentation. Levene is tight-lipped and angry, not yielding to Erik but not being stupid enough to escalate the confrontation. Moira is trying to assure Erik that of course the CIA would never experiment on mutants and the suggestion that Charles put the helmet on was only a suggestion and he could have said no. Hank is carefully sliding the powdered diamond into a specimen tube.

From across the table, Oliver meets Logan’s eyes. He’s a fleshy man with a pouty mouth and soft hands. He must be smart or he wouldn’t be here, but he seems content to let the discussion rage without contributing to it. His eyes are pensive, waiting to see how the discussion turns out before taking sides. Logan has dealt with men like him before - fair weather friends that you can’t depend on when the weather turns bad.

“Has the CIA experimented on mutants? Don’t lie to me or I’ll have Charles pluck the truth out of your head,” Erik’s tone is enough to bend metal without the help of his mutation.

“Of course not,” Moira insists, “we didn’t even know mutants existed until I saw the mutants with Shaw in the Hellfire Club. Up until then, it was all theory.”

“Are you threatening me?” Levene demands, ignoring Moira. “Are you threatening me with  _ telepathy?” _

“Yes,” Erik plants both hands on the table and leans towards him. “I’ll threaten anyone who experiments on a mutant.”

Logan is really not in the mood for open warfare right now. “If you want to make good on that threat, Erik, I can give you a few names. Take it down a few notches, would you? You’re not gonna change the world by yelling at some CIA agent who heard of mutants yesterday. You’re not the only survivor of mutant experimentation at this table, so quit acting like you speak for all of us.”

“You,” Erik’s voice is strangled, and his hand comes up. Logan feels the adamantium in his bones respond to Erik’s power.

“So it’s a war crime if a human attacks you, but you can just use your power against me anytime you want? There’s words for people like you, Erik, and none of them are good.” Logan can’t lean over the table towards Erik, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He’s met guys like Erik before - guys with potential who could go either way. Logan wishes Chuck wasn’t mixed up with someone as volatile as Erik, but as long as he is, Logan will make the effort to curb his more dangerous tendencies. “Prove you’re better than those people who experiment on us, and quit yanking me around whenever you get a burr under your saddle.”

If only Chuck were here to listen in on whatever storm is raging in Erik’s head right now. The only visible indicators are the muscles jumping in Erik’s jaw and the dangerous gleam in his eye. Then Erik sits back, and Logan feels his bones relax. 

“We’ve concluded the topic on the agenda,” Moira states. 

Levene and Oliver take the hint, and get up to leave. Hank has already left with his specimen tube.

“Walk out with us, agent MacTaggert,” Levene says.

The three CIA agents depart, leaving Logan alone in the room with Erik.

“They didn’t experiment on you. You volunteered,” Erik lashes out.

Underneath the anger, Logan hears the pain. Damn, he’s so young. Logan can’t remember ever being that young - young enough to think life would be good or people would be fair, young enough to remember the sense of betrayal when he found out how wrong he was. There is nothing more explosive than a disillusioned idealist. Logan got past that phase decades ago. Some days he’s just so old and tired that he can’t remember a time when he thought he deserved better than he got.

“Yeah, I did. Sometimes the only thing you can control is the timing of the pain. If you cooperate, at least you don’t lose the fight first.” The age and tiredness come through in Logan’s voice.

Some of the anger goes out of Erik, giving way to shame.

“You cooperated sometimes too, didn’t you?” Logan asks.

Erik’s jaw clenches, and when he speaks the edges of his voice are chipped with self-hatred. “Just so I didn’t have to lose the fight first.”

“Helplessness is a real bitch, isn’t it?”

Erik takes a breath, can’t get the words out, blows out a long sigh, studies the table and then threads his hands into his hair and pulls. “We’re the most powerful men on the planet, Logan, how can we still be so helpless?”

“Purpose beats power every time, bub; we don’t know what we want. We just know a few things we want to avoid.” Logan picks up a pencil that Oliver left behind and chews on it.

“I know what I want,” Erik says quietly.

“Then what? After you kill Shaw, then what?”

“I kill the next one.”

“Then one day you wake up and find out you didn’t kill Shaw at all - you became him. Even if you kill him, he doesn’t go away.” Logan wants to reach over the table and shake Erik until he sees sense. Barring that, he wants to throw Erik out of this mansion and out of Chuck’s life before he can hurt that naive kid who thinks Erik just needs a safe place to heal. Not all damage heals.

“What do you want me to do?” Erik’s voice is tight with frustration. “Some people deserve to die!”

“Yeah. Shaw’s death would be justice for killing your mother,” Logan says.

Erik rears back. “How did you know about that?”

“I don’t know; maybe Chuck told me. For what it’s worth, I agree with you. You kill that fucking bastard the first chance you get. I’ll back you up all the way.”

“Even if Charles disagrees with you?” Erik asks, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“Yep.” Logan doesn’t elaborate. He’s had about as much talking as he can stand today.

He’s stunned Erik, which makes a nice gap in the conversation. “I’m gonna go run. I’ve been sitting too long.”

Without waiting for a response, Logan walks out of the mansion. The October air is crisp and cool. He fills his lungs, stretches his arms above his head, and then takes off for the trees, ignoring the three CIA agents who are having some kind of intense conversation while standing next to their car in the driveway. 

He’s had enough drama for one day.


	14. Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There are a couple of paragraphs describing a memory of physical abuse of a child in this chapter.

Moira and Oliver exchange glances behind Levene’s back as the three of them leave the disastrous meeting about the helmet. Levene’s tension is thick and oppressive, and Moira is worried that his confrontation with Erik may have pushed him over a line. Erik may not have meant to threaten Levene with his power, but there was no mistaking the hum of all the metal in the room. 

“They may have seen the helmet as a threat, Levene,” Oliver points out in a conciliatory tone. “I’ve never seen any of the mutants that confrontational.”

“We’ve seen that particular mutant be that confrontational,” Levene snaps out. He isn’t going to let Oliver smooth this over. “If you’ve forgotten what he did to that yacht last year, I haven’t.”

“I’ve told you about Lehnsherr’s history with Shaw,” Moira replies. “Other than his obsession with Shaw, he’s quite reasonable.”

So what if she’s overstating the case? And neglecting to mention that Erik can make every situation all about his obsession with Shaw.

“How do you think he’ll handle it when we get confirmation Shaw is going to try to steal a nuclear reactor from the New London Submarine Base?” Oliver asks. 

If Levene was a mutant who could kill with a look, Oliver would be dead.

“We’ve found Shaw?” Moira asks, turning to look at Levene.

The conversation pauses for a moment when Logan bursts out of the mansion and takes off down the gravel path at a run. Moira watches him for a moment, but it doesn’t look like he’s running because anything is wrong. Levene is giving her a close look, and Moira deliberately turns her back on the delicious spectacle of Logan running to rejoin the conversation. 

“The situation is sensitive, Moira, and I’m not convinced that letting that . . .” Levene gestures angrily at the mansion, “get involved is the best idea.”

“You can’t keep Lehnsherr out of this. The reason he’s been working with us all year is because we promised him information about Shaw,” Moira replies.

“You mean  _ you _ promised him information about Shaw,” says Levene.

“Shaw’s a mutant, Levene, with a team of mutants. No way can we send conventional forces to stop Shaw and expect them to win. The mutants have to take him on,” Oliver says.

Moira sends a grateful look in Oliver’s direction. Oliver is laid-back enough that you forget how stubborn he can be once he makes up his mind.

“I’m fine with Dr. Xavier’s involvement. He can cover his tracks well enough. But you saw how much of a loose cannon Lehnsherr is. What if he destroys something?” Levene demands, a finger pointing angrily at Moira’s collarbone.

“Then the world will know about mutants,” Moira says calmly.

“The world is not ready to know about mutants!” Levene insists.

“That might not be our decision to make,” Oliver says.

Levene sends another murderous look in Oliver’s direction before turning back to Moira. “We don’t have confirmation about Shaw yet, and we’re not inviting Dr. Xavier’s involvement until we know for certain. 

“What confirmation are we waiting for?” Moira asks.

At this, Levene and Oliver exchange looks. “She’s got clearance to know,” Oliver says with a shrug.

“I don’t want Dr. Xavier to know, is the problem,” Levene replies. “If we confirm something, she’s going to be thinking about it, and that means Dr. Xavier is going to pull it out of her head.” He turns back to Moira. 

What’s at the forefront of Moira’s mind right now was Logan’s joking reference yesterday that the CIA confidentiality rules don’t prohibit telepathic communications. “Dr. Xavier isn’t going to break any rules,” she assures them.

Levene just shrugs in reply. 

“I hope,” Moira says acidly, “that my protest against granting clemency to a man who conspired to kidnap and conduct medical experiments on mutants has not been set aside too quickly.”

Levene shrugs again. “We needed the information more than we needed to send someone that smart and resourceful to jail. Stryker wasn’t involved in the actual kidnapping.”

“Shaw couldn’t have held Charles without Stryker’s cooperation, and Stryker used a military base, Levene! A military base! Government resources were used to conduct medical experiments on an American citizen without his consent!” Moira says, trying to keep her voice low enough to not draw anyone’s attention.

“Oh, it’s ‘Charles’ now, is it? Try to keep your emotions out of this, Agent MacTaggert. Prosecutors cut plea deals all the time when the information is worth it. Working with Stryker may save the world from a mutant psycho who is stealing a nuclear reactor, so I think that outweighs any hang-up you or Dr. Xavier may have. Besides, we got him back, didn’t we? And none the worse for wear.” Levene is scowling at her.

Moira is outraged on Charles’ behalf that Stryker will go unpunished, but the mutant whose reaction she is most concerned about is Logan’s. Logan told her how he got those claws, and it wasn’t a pretty story.

“We’re leaning on the military to disclose more information about any other mutant experimentation and then we’ll put a stop to it,” Oliver rushes to assure her.

“Let’s go, Oliver. MacTaggert, wait for our call. Let Dr. Xavier know he may only have a few moments notice once we know where Shaw is heading, so he needs to be on stand-by.” Levene walks away from her and gets in the car. Oliver follows him.

Moira watches the car drive down the mansion’s long driveway and balls her hands into fists. 

* * *

 

“Hey, Charles!” 

Raven’s voice echoes inside his head too, still all glee and happiness. He’s made his sister genuinely happy for the first time in years, and he’s too distracted to enjoy it. He pauses on the grand staircase and scrapes up a smile for her. She’s blue and happy instead of blue and defiant. It makes her look younger.

“Is the meeting over?”

“Yes, it ended before I got back. The CIA agents are outside in the drive,” Charles replies.

Erik strides into the entryway, body taut and face forbidding. Last Charles saw him, he was yelling at Levene about mutant experimentation.

“How did it go?” Charles asks him, looking down from the first landing.

“We agreed to disagree,” Erik says, his voice sharp enough to saw logs.

Charles draws a breath to thank Erik for destroying the helmet, when Raven interrupts. “Charles says he’s totally fine with me being blue now!”

Erik’s eyebrows went up.

“He said he was wrong! Can you believe that? Charles actually admitted he was wrong! In front of a witness! Sean saw the whole thing,” Raven babbles excitedly.

“How did all this come about?” Erik asks. The edge on his voice has softened, and he’s looking between Raven, who is smiling widely enough to split her head, and Charles, who has stuffed his hands in his pockets, also smiling.

“Charles said some of his friends stood up for him when someone wanted to hide his mutation so he decided to do the same . . . holy hell! It was you! The helmet, right? What did you do to it?” Raven is almost jumping up and down on the bottom step in her glee.

“How did you know about the helmet?” Charles asks. That was classified.

“Hank told me when he kicked me out of biology early to go to the meeting. You totally demolished it, right, Erik?”

“Logan helped.”

“You and Logan did something  _ together? _ Oh, because it’s Charles, right?”

“Yes, because it’s Charles,” Erik agrees. 

The undercurrent of hostility that accompanies any mention of Logan is missing this time, and Charles is touched that their loyalty to him has had such a deep effect.

“I gotta tell the guys!” Raven crows, and before Charles can stop her, she’s run off, shouting for Alex and Armando.

“Thank you. I didn’t thank you in the meeting, and I should have. Thank you.” Charles still has his hands stuffed in his pockets, more aloof than he should be right now. He’s a touchy bundle of happiness, regret, gratitude and tension right now, and if Erik offers him emotional support, he’ll lose his composure. 

“I’m glad of the result,” Erik replies, nodding in the direction Raven has gone.

“It’s funny how I never saw . . . .” Charles trails off.

“Charles, sometimes you know so much that you don’t stop to understand.” Erik’s voice is gentle, which takes some of the sting out of the rebuke.

“I told you I knew everything about you once. Do you remember?” Charles is suddenly as ashamed of that bit of arrogance as he is of telling Raven she should hide herself.

“No harm done. I didn’t believe you.”

Charles wants to talk to Erik about the things he knows, and fears, about Erik, but Erik is typically so stern that when his face softens like that, it leaves the impression that a mountain has moved. Charles doesn’t want to disturb that peacefulness, so he doesn’t say what he wanted to say.

“The day has put me on edge. I’m going to go lie down for a bit,” Charles says instead, turning to continue up the stairs.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“It would be nice to not be interrupted, if you could deflect the group for a while,” Charles replies, to give Erik something to do so he doesn’t volunteer to come with him.

“Of course,” Erik says.

Charles ignores the question in his voice and eyes. He can’t tell Erik what’s wrong; he can’t tell anyone. “Thank you,” is all he says.

When Charles reaches his room, he locks the door, kicks off his shoes and lies down on the bed, briefly covering his face with his hands while he takes deep breaths. What did that telepathic link with Logan do to him? He’d thought the only effect on himself was having his congestion and shoulder healed, but something fundamental in his worldview has shifted.

Clearing his mind is easy, but connecting with the deeper levels in his own mind is not something Charles has done very often. He’ll start with a memory, and then dive deeper, following the connections, like he does when he probes others’ minds.

Inexplicably, his concentration scatters when he tries to probe the memory of his telepathic link with Logan. The memory is there, but it’s tangled and he can’t see it clearly. Rather than force his way in, or panic at how odd it feels to have his own mind blocking him, Charles slides into another memory that may get him to the same path. 

His mind flips back to the last time he was afraid for his life. He’s crushed in Logan’s grip, unnaturally tight because Erik is controlling Logan’s arms and he doesn’t want Logan to drop Charles as Erik levitates them to the top of the mansion.  Once Erik releases them, Logan drops Charles on the roof of the mansion, and he’s sliding on the shingles, afraid that he’ll fall off the roof without Erik or Logan even noticing because they’re too busy hating each other. Then Logan is advancing on Erik, yelling at him with a raised fist. Charles senses Erik’s intention to reach out with his power to stop Logan . . . and Charles stops Erik. Without touching his temple, without planning it, the telepathic interference with Erik’s power is clear as a bell in the memory, as clear as the fear that he would fall to his death if Erik and Logan got into a fight. So he stopped it.

Survival instinct. 

All his efforts to slow his breathing are useless; he’s nearly panting again, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. If Logan’s instinct for survival has infected Charles’ unconscious mind and he’s going to telepathically control anyone whose behavior might pose a danger to him, then . . . Charles can’t finish the thought.  He remembers Sean telling him that he’s so nice that people feel bad about telling him he’s still threatening, but he  _ is _ still threatening. What if someone notices what Charles is doing? 

What if Erik ever found out that Charles kept him from using his power against Logan, and allowed Logan to strike him? Then a realization breaks through the memory - Charles thinks Erik is more of a threat than Logan; that’s why he stopped Erik instead of Logan.  _ Not Erik! Erik would never hurt me! _ Charles insists to his own mind. Disagreeing with himself is disorienting, because there is a certainty deep in his mind that Erik is dangerous to him. Erik’s drive for revenge will someday crush Charles and cast him aside.  _ That’s ridiculous! I can’t tell the future! _ The certainty remains unshaken despite Charles’ arguments.

Charles slows his breathing again, and tries searching for answers, but all he has are memories, ones he thought were buried so deep that they could only surface in nightmares. 

Cain is hitting him. It’s one of the first times; Charles can tell because of his size. He got his growth spurt late, and then it didn’t last long enough, but in this memory he’s not even five feet tall, which is small enough to hide in the potting bench if he can get there before Cain sees him, and he didn’t make it this time. He’s using a belt. The nicks from the belt buckle left scars that Charles can still see, though they’re small and faded enough that Erik hasn’t noticed them. Charles has his fists clenched and arms over his head, curled up small enough that the belt can lash across his back, thighs and calves all in one blow. Cain is yelling at him for being a useless undergrown cockroach who deserves everything he’s getting and making a series of vile threats about what else Cain intends to do to him. 

Charles remembers his thoughts too. That small and terrified boy is trying to think of ways to make Cain like him so he won’t hit him anymore. The first thing going through his mind is to be sure to never bring this up again because it might make Cain feel guilty about what he’s done. If Cain gets upset and feels guilty, he might hit him again. Next, he should do things Cain likes. Everyone knows that bullies just need a friend and some kindness. Charles needs to become Cain’s friend, and then he won’t hit Charles anymore.

In the mind of a child too scared to admit he was helpless, Charles had solved the problem of Cain’s abuse, and taken responsibility for turning Cain into a friend. Every time Cain hit him, Charles saw it as his own failure to be nice enough to Cain; proof that he needed to try harder to be likable.

Charles curls up on his side, hands over his face, mimicking the pose he held when Cain beat him. Shudders run through both mind and body as the mindset of an abused child lets go of him, and the survival instinct he crippled to make sense of the abuse reasserts itself. The truth was, he could not have stopped Cain by being likable.

He’s crying now, grieving for that confused little boy who naively believed he could stop abuse through kindness. Erik’s memories are sifting into his own, and he’s also grieving for Erik, who fought and fought, and he couldn’t stop Shaw’s abuse either. Even as adults, they’re both still using those same methods that didn’t work for them as children. 

_ When do we grow up? _ Charles wails to himself.

He doesn’t know the answer to that.

_If Erik stopped fighting, and I stopped appeasing, could we find a middle ground?_ _Is there a place where Erik isn’t a threat to me?_

Charles pulls out of his memories and goes back to his worries about Erik. The link with Logan has weakened Charles’ desire to appease people who want to hurt him. If he can find some way to weaken Erik’s desire to fight, they may be able to find that middle ground.

Charles stops himself right there. That’s not his decision to make. He wants Erik; with everything in his heart and soul, he wants Erik, but he won’t take him by deception or subterfuge. As much as he would like to pour peace over the memories of his mother’s death and Shaw’s experiments, Charles won’t do it. He remembers the pain and confusion it caused Logan when Kayla did something similar to him. It’s deception and theft. He wants Erik’s trust and respect, and he would lose that forever if he interferes with Erik’s pain. 

The tears now are grief for the loss he knows is coming. Charles cannot keep Erik if it involves telepathically influencing him. He told Erik, back before their friendship turned into something deeper, that he would not want friends who were forced to stay with him. He is still committed to that ethic. If Erik wreaks his revenge on Shaw, he’ll cast Charles aside and plunge his life into hatred. Charles can’t stop him; he won’t, though the pain of it eclipses the memory of every beating he ever suffered.

_ My friend, my lover, you want to own me but I have to set you free. _

Slowly, methodically, with every mental technique he’s ever learned and a few he’s inventing right here on the spot, Charles sets blocks in his mind.

There is something slippery about the effort, as if his decision does not want to stay within the bounds Charles is setting on it. He can’t let go of the hope that Erik will decide on his own to not kill Shaw, though he knows it’s a vain hope. He remembers Logan saying how strange it is to feel like your life isn’t paying any attention to you. Charles hadn’t fully appreciated that at the time, but now he’s deeply rattled to realize that he doesn’t have full control over what his mind is doing.

The trouble is, he’s never going to be able to convince himself on any level that he would be better off without Erik, and he’s not as selfless as he used to be.

* * *

 

After Charles goes upstairs to rest, Erik wanders towards the kitchen in search of something to eat, his mind still turning over Logan’s unexpected support. Erik has never met anyone who completely accepted that he needed to kill Shaw to avenge his mother, and that Logan would express that support even after Erik pitched him into the trees is confusing him. 

_ Helplessness is a real bitch, isn’t it? _ The memory of Logan’s wry non-condemnation eases some of Erik’s constant strain. Logan understands why Erik threw him into the trees and then froze him motionless. Logan understands why Erik needs to kill Shaw. Erik is beginning to understand how Logan bewitched Charles. It is intoxicating and disorienting to be understood and accepted when you’ve spent your whole life in a fight that makes sense to no one but yourself.

His hand is on the door to the kitchen when he realizes that Charles has also spent his life in a fight that makes sense only to himself. He’s misguided to fight to be liked the way he does, and everyone but Charles can see it. Erik’s arguments force Charles to defend his position as much as Charles’ more subtle methods of persuasion force Erik to defend his.

There is a thunder of footsteps behind him as Raven, Alex and Armando push past him and into the kitchen.

“Sean heard the whole thing!” Raven is saying. “Sean! Tell them what happened!”

Erik trails the group into the kitchen, where Sean is eating dry cereal by the handfuls out of the box. Sean, happy to be the center of attention, recounts the episode, with Raven throwing in comments and reminders until she’s telling more of it than Sean. Erik wonders how accurate Raven’s recollection is, because he just can’t picture Charles telling Raven that she never needs to wear clothes again. 

“He said he was wrong! Charles actually admitted he was wrong!” Raven crows.

“Did you tell Hank yet?” Armando asks.

“I tried. He said he was busy,” Raven says with a shrug.

Armando keeps glancing over at Erik, who is leaning against the counter with his arms folded. Raven’s jubilance over Charles’ about-face is teasing him with the possibility that Charles may change his mind on the issues important to Erik, but he’s worried that if Raven keeps parading about and rubbing the change into Charles’ face, he might become protective of his other opinions. 

“Are you going to say ‘I told you so?’” Armando finally asks him.

“No, I am very gracious in victory,” Erik replies drily. Let the furor die down, the sooner the better.

“You’re going to be nice about it instead of gloating? Dude, today is like the Twilight Zone,” Sean declares, going back to crunching on dry cereal. “Next, Moira is going to come in and tell us that Shaw is joining the Boy Scouts.”

“Logan and Erik don’t hate each anymore,” Raven informs them all.

“Twilight Zone,” Sean confirms with a nod.

Erik sighs. “Anyone else want a sandwich?” 

Sean puts down the cereal box to get cold cuts and tomatoes out of the fridge; Raven sets out plates while Alex passes out bread and Armando lines the counter with condiments. It’s all rather natural and pleasant, to be honest. 

“You know what the professor said about my history paper?” Sean asks, and then he rattles on about the weapons development that turned World War I into a bloodbath and the need for a new way to fight wars.

“Stalemates are going to be the new peace,” Raven jumps in. “I said that, you heard it from me.”

“What did Charles think of that?” Erik asks. The question makes Sean jump, but he gets nervous every time Erik even looks at him.

“It’s like he never heard the idea before, but I think he liked it,” Raven replies.

Interesting. 

Erik lets the conversation move on, but he keeps the idea in his mind and starts turning it over and over.

* * *

 

Later that evening, Erik suggests a chess game. Charles has been jittery since the meeting about the helmet. The day has been odd, with Raven’s excitement bleeding over into every other interaction. Even Erik has been more buoyant than usual, though the uncharacteristic infusion of cheer has alternated with periods of despair, as he wonders if he dares to hope that Charles might finally be seeing sense. 

Then Moira quietly let him and Charles know that they are closing in on Shaw, and information may come as soon as tomorrow. Erik, who has spent nearly a year waiting impatiently for this news, is now worried that it may be too soon. He hasn’t had time to ascertain if Charles is willing to change his mind about Shaw. That’s why he wants the chess game; Charles reveals more than he realizes over the chess board.

The first several moves pass in silence. Erik doesn’t press Charles to speak, just watches him sip a glass of scotch and play chess. He’s wearing a blue cardigan and neatly pressed slacks, looking every inch the professor and not at all like the kidnap victim on the run in southeastern Canada who was rescued almost three weeks ago. Something in his manner has changed, though, Erik can see it in the tentative way he plays tonight. Instead of claiming the middle of the board in an obvious opening gambit, Charles sets up his pieces to threaten Erik’s move into the center, as if he doesn’t intend to win but he’ll punish Erik’s bolder initiative.

Erik waits out the silence. 

“The source of Moira’s new information is the military man, Major Stryker, who worked with Shaw on my kidnapping. She believes Stryker decided their deal was void when Shaw wouldn’t help recapture Logan and me, and that’s why he’s passing them information,” Charles says.

“Did she tell you that?”

A brief, negative shake of his head. So Charles stole the information telepathically, and has passed it on to Erik. 

Interesting.

“What else hasn’t she told you?”

“That the Russians sold the submarine to Shaw, but they aren’t willingly working with him anymore. Shaw still has some connection with the Russians, but it doesn’t seem to be entirely voluntary on their part.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell us that?” Erik is interested in the information, but he’s more interested in the fact that Charles is picking information out of Moira’s head and passing it to him.

“She’s following orders,” Charles says, and moves his knight to guard Erik’s rook and threaten a pawn.

Charles thinks that exonerates Moira; Erik thinks that further condemns her. “I’ve been at the mercy of men following orders,” Erik comments, his voice soft, with a layer of unbreakable steel beneath. 

“They don’t know if they can trust us, Erik,” Charles says, almost pleading, as if he wants Erik to reassure him that once the mutants have proven themselves trustworthy, Moira won’t be ordered to keep useful information from them.

Erik moves his rook and captures Charles’ knight. “I could answer that question for them, but I doubt you would approve.”

“We have a common enemy, Erik. They can trust even you that far. Cuba, Russia, America, there’s no difference. Shaw’s declared war on mankind, on all of us. He has to be stopped,” Charles says matter-of-factly, as if agreeing that Shaw is dangerous is enough of a compromise.

Erik sets his martini down. “I’m not going to stop Shaw. I’m going to kill him.” He knows Charles wants him to play by human rules and turn Shaw over to the human authorities. “Do you have it in you to allow that?” He won’t ask for Charles’ permission, only his non-interference. He also won’t tell Charles that he already has Logan’s approval, though he wants to ask why Charles would tell Logan something so personal without Erik’s permission.

Charles huffs out a soundless laugh, and leans forward to look at the chessboard again. His expression is tight, closed off, as if he’s holding in all the arguments he wants to make.

“You’ve known all along why I was here, Charles,” Erik prods him. True, things got much more complicated in the year since he decided to stay, but Erik has not lost sight of his purpose.

There is just the smallest cringe from Charles, and no sense of him in Erik’s head at all. That comment hurt him, and he doesn’t reply. Damn. Erik keeps his feelings off his face, and returns to their customary argument.

“Things have changed,” Erik insists. “What started as a covert mission -- tomorrow, mankind will know that mutants exist. Shaw, us, they won’t differentiate. They’ll fear us. And that fear will turn to hatred.”

“Not if we stop the war, if we prevent whatever it is Shaw plans, and risk our lives doing so,” Charles insists.

“Would they do the same for us?” Erik probes. This is the heart of Charles’ appeasement - his belief that he must do for others what they would never do for him. He is selfless to the point of being self-destructive. Erik doesn’t say it, but he wants to remind Charles that the CIA brought the helmet back intact this morning, and wanted him to wear it. The fear and hatred are already there, but Charles won’t see it.

“We have it in us to be the better men,” Charles insists.

“We already are. We’re the next stage in human evolution, you said it yourself.”

Charles doesn’t like Erik using his words against him, for his own purposes.

Erik goes on, “Are you really so naive to think that they won’t battle their own extinction? Or is it arrogance?”

“I’m sorry?” Charles says, as if he’s giving Erik a chance to apologize for calling him naive and arrogant.

“They’re going to turn on us. But you’re blind to it, because you believe they’re all like Moira,” Erik points out. 

“You believe they’re all like Shaw,” Charles throws back at him. He pauses, gathering up his professorial manner and draping himself in that naive arrogance that makes Erik want to shake him. “Listen to me very carefully my friend. Killing Shaw will not bring you peace.”

And now Charles is back to the idea that this whole situation is about healing Erik’s pain and anger. It’s patronizing and entirely misses the point, as if Charles thinks the purpose of Erik’s life is nothing more than his own feelings. Erik meets his eyes. “Peace was never an option.”

Charles glances down and away. Erik is surprised at how tentative he is tonight. They’ve had much more forceful arguments about their opposing points of view. Perhaps that helmet has affected him more than he knows. Good. Perhaps Charles will be open to considering something besides his own opinions.

“There are other options,” Erik says.

Charles looks up, eyes wide and startled, almost cautious. 

“A stalemate.”

“Where did you get that idea?” Charles whispers, face gone white.

“Raven said something,” Erik replies dismissively, wanting to get to the important points.

“She did, didn’t she?” Charles says, all the tension fleeing his face and leaving a smile behind. “The idea came from Raven!”

“Yes, fine, put a gold star on her next history paper. Charles, the point is, we can bargain with the humans from a position of strength. We get what we want; we offer a few things the humans want. Charles, are you listening to me?” Erik demands to the top of Charles head, which is all he can see with Charles studying the pattern in the carpet like that.

“Are we threatening them, Erik? Will you hold the humans hostage to your power? What demands will you place on them in exchange for not destroying an entire power grid?” Charles challenges him, the smile gone.

Good. Now they’re getting somewhere. Once he kills Shaw, Charles can get over it and then they can still work together.

“An end to all mutant experimentation, and the destruction of all data gathered in experiments conducted to date,” Erik says.

“And in exchange?” Charles presses.

Erik shrugs. “I leave the power grid intact, and I don’t destroy the buildings where the experiments were conducted.”

“That’s not a stalemate, Erik, that’s an ultimatum.” Charles sips his scotch and sits back in his chair.

“What would you offer in exchange for this basic ‘human’ decency of not experimenting on us?” Erik can’t keep the sarcastic emphasis out of his voice.

“We provide assistance where we can, using our powers. Have you considered how much faster construction of, say, an airplane would go, if you were involved?” Charles replies.

“Have you considered how many men I would put out of a job if I did that?” Erik counters. “This isn’t tit-for-tat, Charles. I’m not bribing anyone to treat us decently. I’ll refrain from destroying a few things. That’s all. A stalemate is based on fear, not favors.”

“Alright then, you agree to turn over the men who conducted those experiments to the human justice system, and to abide by their decisions,” Charles parries.

Erik does not take long to think about that. There won’t be justice if the humans are meting it out. 

“No.”

“What about the men who are just following orders?” Charles probes.

“You know my opinion of men who follow orders,” Erik says softly, dangerously. He will not compromise on this point.

Charles sits back in his chair, jaw tense. “I won’t allow you to harm people who don’t know what they’re doing!”

“I won’t allow evil people to plead ignorance of their own actions, Charles! They face our justice system,” Erik replies.

“You said ‘our’ justice system. Are we now talking about setting up a parallel government?”

Erik’s smile is feral.

The argument overtakes the chess game, which is set aside unfinished. The two of them don’t agree on anything, but the ideas fly thick and fast through the air. Erik parries Charles’ suggestions and deflects them, rather than shooting them down outright. He wants Charles to sleep on the idea of a stalemate, soak it in and truly accept it, rather than just pretend to consider it while he waits for Erik to change his mind. 

But that doesn’t mean he leaves Charles alone. It isn’t often Charles is off-balance and confused, and Erik presses every advantage he can. Not long after they’ve abandoned the chess game without finishing it, he has Charles whimpering under his hands, clawing at Erik’s shoulders and trying to drag him closer. Erik complies, only to take Charles’ mouth in a punishing kiss until Charles shoves him off, presses him down to the mattress and winds his fingers tightly into Erik’s short hair to hold him still, biting at Erik’s mouth in something more akin to an attack than a caress.

“What do you want tonight, Charles?” Erik demands in a whisper.

“You, you infuriating bastard,” Charles hisses back.

Erik can feel the turmoil pouring off of him in waves. This isn’t a shared mindlink. He hasn’t felt Charles in his head since they exchanged words during the meeting with the CIA about the helmet. But when Charles’ emotions are strong enough, they pour off of him in an aura. Erik welcomes the turmoil. He has a better chance of touching the real core of Charles through turmoil than through that arrogant surety, and so he does what he can to keep Charles roiling.

Seizing Charles’ hips to hold him in place, Erik thrusts upwards. Charles gasps, and his fingers tighten in Erik’s hair. Erik smiles half of a smug smile while Charles has his eyes shut. He has never been closer to owning Charles than he is right now. Wrapping legs and arms around him, Erik pulls him in tightly, and matches Charles’ wild kisses. 

Charles lets go of Erik’s hair, but only to push back against Erik’s chest so he can get his hands down between them. Erik releases him, keeping a hand on the back of Charles’ head so when he breaks the kiss he still shares breaths with him. 

There’s nothing gentle about Charles’ touch tonight, and it’s such a turn-on that Erik reaches above his head to brace himself against the headboard and lays himself out entirely for Charles’ use and pleasure.

“You’re arrogant, and infuriating, and there are times when I can’t stand the sight of you or I want to fuck you blind, and I can’t tell which,” Charles snarls out between sucking marks onto Erik’s shoulders and stroking his cock so hard he mixes up pleasure and pain.

Erik lets go of the headboard to seize Charles around the upper arms and haul him up to where Erik can look him in the eye. “You must be reading my mind, because I could say the same about you.”

Charles shakes himself free. “I am  _ not!” _

Erik knocks him onto his back and inserts himself between Charles’ thighs, pinning him down and leaving the verbal argument, now that they’ve established the fact that they’re both frustrated with each other. Charles arches his back at Erik’s stimulation, and Erik slides his hands under the small of Charles’ back to better control his movements. He’s sucking hard and fast, and Charles is breathing in rhythm with him.

As he senses Charles getting close to his climax, Erik pulls away, gets to his knees and gets the lube out of the nightstand drawer. “I’ve decided I’m going to fuck you blind.”

“You fucking tease!” Charles shouts at him.

Erik is going to have to find ways to infuriate Charles more often. “Oh, you’ll get everything you want, Charles,” Erik promises, his voice gone soft as he slides his fingers in. Kneeling up, he has one hand in Charles, and he takes his cock in the other hand. “Now? Or do you want to come with me?”

He’s beautiful, moaning with lust and rocking his head back and forth on the pillow. Erik could come just watching Charles begging him not to stop.

“With you,” Charles finally gasps out. “But you bloody well better hurry!”

“Anything you say, Charles, anything at all,” Erik whispers to him. 

He releases Charles’ cock, dropping it to slap against his belly, and despite Charles’ admonition to hurry, he takes his time pushing himself in. He’ll hurry once he knows he isn’t hurting him. The grimace on Charles’ face is either pleasure or pain, or possibly both.

“Charles?”

“Together, Erik!” Charles reaches down, but Erik knocks his hand away and takes him in hand again. They’re both so close that Erik doesn’t bother trying to drag out their pleasure any longer, and Charles cries out, his fingernails digging into Erik’s arms as Erik’s body tenses and releases with him. It’s brutal, passionate, desperate, and Erik doesn’t know if they’re saying good-bye or promising forever. 

He suspects Charles doesn’t know either.


	15. SETT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are about 14 POV characters in this chapter, so I tagged each scene with the POV character's name.

**_Janos_ **

Shaw clucks his tongue and gives Emma a look that he probably thinks is kind. “No need to fret that pretty head of yours. Of course everything is still going according to plan. Plans change once in a while, that’s all.”

Janos stares a hole into the magazine he has picked up. Their plans have changed, and then changed again. It appears Stryker got his revenge on Shaw by passing information to the CIA. They can’t be sure because they can’t find Stryker and so Emma can’t read his mind. But these past several days have had them on the run from government operatives. 

The raid on the New London Submarine Base in search of a secret item that Shaw and Emma won’t tell Janos about was supposed to happen yesterday, but now it will happen today. Or not. Janos wouldn’t know. Shaw and Emma are the brains; Azazel and Janos are the hired help.

“Janos?”

Janos pauses a second before lowering the magazine, to give the impression he was deeply interested in the article and not listening to Shaw adjust their plans again.

“How is the practice with the micro-tornadoes coming along?” Shaw has that look on his face again, like he’s trying to appear to be a pleasant person.

“Sir, I can only control them for a few moments.” Janos has tried to explain this before. Tornadoes are outdoor phenomena - he can create a tornado to knock Coast Guard patrol boats out of the water. They start small, but once he releases them, they operate as tornadoes. A tornado indoors, like the one he created when they kidnapped the other telepath, is not something he can control once it leaves his hands. The damage is too conspicuous for Shaw’s taste. He wants them in and out of the naval base with no evidence left behind, and nothing a witness will remember. Unfortunately, tornadoes are memorable. Janos wishes Shaw would swallow a grenade and set off his own diversion while Azazel teleports away with whatever they are stealing.

“Perhaps just a gust of wind?” Shaw suggests.

Janos glances back down at his magazine, noticing for the first time it is a history magazine and the cover article is about the upcoming 20-year anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. “I will try, sir.” There isn’t much else he can say to Shaw’s suggestions, though he knows he can’t create a simple gust of wind. 

“If Janos does cause any danger, Azazel can get us out of there in time,” Emma says.

Yes, because it will be his fault if a tornado on a naval base full of munitions and nuclear material results in a dangerous situation.

“Azazel will already have his hands full,” Shaw says, and his voice has gone from the practiced politeness to dismissive and pinched. 

~###~

Later, Janos finds Azazel alone, eating a meal out of a paper sack. Shaw and Emma have disappeared together, which means Janos and Azazel need to avoid interrupting them for a few hours.

When Janos sits down, Azazel offers him the sack, his mouth full of hamburger. Janos reaches in and takes the other hamburger, and a packet of fries. They eat in silence for a while. Eventually, Janos asks, “did they tell you what you’re stealing?”

“A nuclear reactor,” Azazel answers, then takes another bite of his hamburger.

It takes two swallows to clear his mouth. “For our submarine?” Janos asks. “How could that work?”

“Not for propulsion,” Azazel says between bites. “For a nuclear incident.”

“He really does mean to start a nuclear war, then?” Janos clarifies. 

“You’ve heard him,” Azazel says.

“Yes,” Janos replies, dipping fries into ketchup. “Yes, I have.”

* * *

 

**_Emma_ **

Emma has always disliked her telepathy. There is too much possibility to learn truths she would rather not know. For example, she would prefer to believe that Sebastian has the situation well in hand, and is as confident as he seemed. Instead, she’s caught flashes of anger layered over the frustration as his plans unraveled and had to be forced back together even as the edges frayed further. Sebastian had not planned for Major Stryker’s betrayal. 

Stryker knew how to use flattery to good effect, and had been genuinely intrigued in Sebastian’s plans to stir up some military trouble. Raised on stories of World War II and angry that he’d been born two decades too late to get in on a real war, Stryker had been a willing audience for Sebastian’s visions of glory, with all the mention of mutant survival and domination carefully excised, of course. Sometimes Emma wondered if Sebastian was saying too much. Not even a military man like Stryker would want to risk a nuclear war. She didn’t say anything though. Sebastian had plenty of visions and plans; he did not welcome her suggestions.

Stryker’s anger when Sebastian wouldn’t help him capture that dirty creature after it escaped hadn’t burned hot at all. Emma had learned that the ones who got quietly vengeful were more dangerous than the ones who openly raged. She had tried to tell Sebastian about how Stryker’s anger funneled straight to revenge, but he brushed her off. It took some time in the bedroom before she was forgiven for doubting him. She won’t raise her misgivings about the telepathy drugs so soon, and risk upsetting him again.

Sebastian plunges the needle into the bottle and fills the syringe. Emma can defend all of them from Dr. Xavier, and she told Sebastian that. He insisted the drugs would enhance her own abilities and make it easier to maintain her shield for as long as they need it. 

One of Sebastian’s prior drugs was a straightforward blood doping concoction that increased the volume of her blood. Sebastian needs her blood to create the substance that blocks telepathy; he can’t synthesize it in a laboratory. He hasn’t been able to discern how the helmet he received from the Russians works, though he much prefers that because it’s metal. Emma’s blood, properly treated, crystallizes into a substance that telepathy can’t penetrate, but it’s brittle. It also has to stand alone to be effective; Sebastian tried sealing it to metal to create a barrier that can’t be shattered by a strong blow, and that defeated the reflective properties. There has to be at least a small gap between the crystal sheets and the structure that supports them. He took enough blood from her to create a room, a compartment inside the submarine, that traps telepathy. It’s breakable. Dr. Xavier will have to be drugged into unconsciousness to keep him from breaking the reflective sheeting that covers the walls.

He didn’t tell her that he hadn’t had time to test all of the drugs on Dr. Xavier. He assured her that he knew exactly how these drugs would affect her telepathy, the dose to use, and the antidote when she was finished. She wants to believe him, so she does. It isn’t until the needle is in her vein that she plucks the information out of Sebastian’s head and lets herself believe it. Sebastian never gave Dr. Xavier the telepathy enhancing drug. He never intended to find out how this drug might affect telepathy; the helmet had already been soldered on Dr. Xavier’s head. He meant to test the drug only to make sure it wouldn’t kill Dr. Xavier or drive him insane. Sebastian doesn’t know what this drug will do to her. 

He smiles at her when he presses the plunger on the needle.

She smiles back.

* * *

**_Hank_ **

Hank is in search of a solvent that will sever the chemical bond with the diamond without damaging the crystallized blood cells. Iron will dissolve carbon at high enough temperatures, but he’s fairly sure that temperatures that high will destroy the crystallized blood cells. It’s a pity he doesn’t have a larger sample of this powdered diamond so he could experiment instead of cautiously trying to conserve the substance. 

If he had plasma, he might be able to dissolve the erythrocytes; that might separate out the diamond, depending on the strength of the chemical bond. Perhaps he’ll get Sean or Armando to donate blood; their blood is closer to normal than his. He’s got a centrifuge around here somewhere. Once he can get the diamond and the blood separated, he can study the molecular structures separately and figure out how they bonded. There aren’t any other molecules that can bond with diamond, and he’s sure the key to this material’s unusual property is in the bonding.

These blue fingers are thicker and clumsier than his human hands. He has to be twice as cautious not to spill, which is slowing him down when he wants to be working as fast as possible. His mind is racing with ideas and hypotheses, and this body can’t keep up anymore. He really is a beast, and he hates it. His mutation is working against his mind; it is in all respects worthless and if he has to hear Raven crow about being ‘mutant and proud’ one more time, he may roar. On purpose. 

Hank measures a minute amount of his limited supply onto a glassy carbon electrode surface, then carefully centers a Nafion film over the sample. He read about a way to detect the amount of hemoglobin using a cyclic volt analysis that he’s never had occasion to do before. He wonders if he dares ask Erik for help. Hemoglobin is a metalloprotein, and Erik might be curious about whether or not he can sense iron on a molecular level. It wouldn’t tell him the ratio of blood cell to diamond, or how those two substances bonded chemically, but if Erik could sense whether the hemoglobin has the same iron content as ordinary hemoglobin, that might be useful. Hank frowns at his idea. He would have to teach Erik about ordinary hemoglobin first. Never mind, he’d rather figure it out himself than spend that much time with Erik.

After he’s sealed the Nafion film, Hank pauses to read his reference text. His glasses don’t fit over this bigger face as well. One would think that if a body were to mutate into something fierce and powerful, the mutation should have given him 20/20 vision, but no. He’s a vicious, intimidating, nearsighted beast.

“Beeeeast!”

Only Alex drags out his code name like that.

Hank has time to put his glasses away and store his sample in a glass-fronted cabinet before Alex is bursting into the room, wearing the suit Hank created for him. He hasn’t complained about energy diapers recently.

“They found him, they found Shaw,” Alex pants out. “You can still fly that plane, right? Get suited up! We’ll meet you in the hangar! I gotta find Angel!”

And he’s gone again.

He should set aside his analysis of telepathy-blocking diamond to design an intercom system for the mansion. 

Hank puts his glasses back on and grabs his suit.

* * *

_**Moira** _

Moira had strict instructions to let Levene do the talking when he briefed Base Commander Archambault on their mission just a few hours ago, in a three-way conference call with Moira silent on the line. After the briefing, Levene asked Moira to stay on the line, and then he cautioned her again to keep the mutants under control, as the briefing had not included the details of mutant abilities.

“What does ‘under control’ mean?” Moira had asked.

“Dr. Xavier is the only one authorized to use his power. If anything out of the ordinary should happen, Dr. Xavier is to make sure no one notices or remembers,” Levene had replied. 

Moira had acknowledged the order without promising to obey it. Of course something out of the ordinary will happen; they’re sending in the entire mutant team, not just Dr. Xavier. She didn’t tell Dr. Xavier that he was to mind-wipe anyone who saw mutant powers in action, and she doesn’t know if he pulled that order out of her head, along with her intent to disobey it. Her planned insubordination may affect her career path in the CIA, but she’ll deal with that later. 

Moira is in the co-pilot’s seat, next to Hank. Behind her, the entire team of mutants is suited up in their uniforms and strapped in. There is some excited chatter among the younger team members that mixes with the background noise of the Blackbird’s engines. Covert mission and career-ending insubordination aside, riding in a fighter jet is a damn awesome experience and she refuses to let her personal worries cloud it.

After reading their authorization codes to the air traffic control officer at the New London Submarine Base, Moira sets the radio back in its cradle as the plane dips sharply.

“You nearly hit that!” Erik yells at Hank.

“But I didn’t. Shut up. I’ve got enough to do right now,” Hank fires back.

“What is that tower?” Raven asks.

“The Submarine Escape Training Tower,” Erik replies. At Moira’s quizzical look, he adds, “it was in the book you gave me about this naval base. That tower is 120 feet high, with about a quarter million gallons of water, with hatches so a submariner trainee can practice evacuating a submarine without killing himself with the bends.”

“The bends?” Sean asks.

“Air embolisms that form at depth. The water pressure essentially boils your blood and you die before you drown,” Erik replies. 

The speakers crackle. “Blackbird, you are cleared for landing on Runway 4A.”

“Who did you say was coming?” Hank asks Moira, flipping switches and checking dials on the instrument panel.

“Levene and I briefed the base commander about a team of CIA adjunct operatives, trained to deal with the specialized threat,” Moira replies, and hopes that is enough.

Of course it isn’t.

“Did you give them details? Do they know about Shaw?” Erik demands.

“Do they know what we look like? I mean, this is hardly military gear,” Armando asks, waving a hand towards his blue and yellow suit.

“Yeah, what if they shoot at us?” Angel asks. Her wings are held awkwardly immobile behind her suit, and she’s leaning forward in her seat. The suit covers her shoulders and back, preventing her from sealing her wings to her skin. 

“It’s a training base for naval recruits; none of them will have live ammunition in their weapons,” Erik replies.

“You didn’t tell them what’s going on, or what to expect from us, did you?” Charles asks, voice deliberately casual.

“I was ordered not to,” Moira says. “All of this is on a need-to-know basis.” Personally, she would have handled things differently, but she has orders. She hopes Charles can sense her misgivings about these orders, and the change she made to them. She is walking a fine line between losing Charles’ trust, and losing her superior’s trust. It discomfits her to realize she is more concerned about Charles’ trust. This mission has skewed her professionalism.

“That’s good of you to follow orders,” Erik says in a voice so neutral he might be a machine.

Moira doesn’t miss the look Charles shoots at him, and she wonders about the telepathic exchange between those two. She’s let Charles pull information out of her head telepathically a few times now, ironically grateful to Logan for pointing out the loophole in the confidentiality rules. 

“The CIA didn’t have time to brief the military on the existence of mutants,” Moira points out.

“You could have gotten Major Stryker to conduct that briefing,” Erik says, head tipped back and studying the ceiling of the plane above his jump seat, deliberately casual. 

Damn Erik. 

“You’re working with Stryker?” Logan yells at her. Hank hasn’t had time to make Logan a suit, so he’s wearing civilian attire - jeans and a flannel shirt that she’s pretty sure she’s seen Charles wearing too.

“He’s offering valuable information. What he told us about Shaw tracks with everything else we know,” Moira defends herself.

“No need for alarm. It’s perfectly acceptable to ally yourself with anyone, as long as you get what you want,” Erik says, still in that deadly calm voice.

Moira shoots an uncertain look at Erik. She’s never trusted Erik, and even less now that he’s defending her.

There’s a slight bump as Hank lands them on the runway and engages the braking mechanism.

* * *

_**Erik** _

Erik’s insides clench with anticipation as Hank lands them on the runway. At last, at long last. He feels his power humming in his blood; his mind turning over with the plans upon plans upon plans he’s made for this day. Whatever method he chooses, every path ends with Shaw dead at his feet, knowing that Erik killed him, afraid until the moment his heart stops beating. Erik needs Shaw’s fear as much as he needs his death. 

“Wait,” Charles says before Hank can lower the ramp. “Let me see.” He puts two fingers to his temple and starts narrating. “Air traffic control and the surrounding airfield shows human activity only. Moving south now. Office buildings, maintenance workers, classrooms. The barracks are to the east; the Submarine Escape Training Tower is to the west; nothing unusual in either area. I’m at the shipyards now. There must be a dozen submarines docked here. I’ll go through them.”

There is the wrinkle between his brows that Charles always gets when he’s concentrating. Erik considers it dispassionately, but Charles is already sliding away from him, making room for Erik’s plans for Shaw, which are all-encompassing. There is no room for Charles now.

Charles continues his narration, touching down in the minds of the recruits, submariners and officers going about their tasks. Nothing is out of the ordinary, not yet anyway.

Erik has already filled in the group on the basics of the submarine base on the short flight here, information gleaned from the book about the naval base that Moira gave him. It was a history book published by the military, not a training manual, and he’s sure much of the information is outdated.

Charles still has his fingers to his temple, talking about what he’s finding. The docked submarines are full of humans. Erik’s eyes drift south of the base, where the ocean borders the naval base. He doubts Shaw would have docked his submarine at the shipyard. Then he frowns. Would Shaw’s telepath be able to block notice of their submarine the way Charles could? Charles’ telepathic scan of the base may well be sending up signal flares to announce their presence.

Hank lowers the ramp. Moira deplanes at the front of the group and points to the southwest. “The heavily shielded buildings are where we’ll find the nuclear reactor and any enriched uranium - do you see?” 

Erik picks out the buildings made of concrete threaded through with reinforced steel girders. They feel heavy and solid to his power, contrasting with the lighter warehouse-style buildings made of sheet metal and siding.

Charles joins them on the runway. “I don’t sense anyone but humans in that location.”

“No luck on the submarine?” Erik asks.

Charles shakes his head. “None at all.”

“Shaw won’t have conveniently parked it for us in the shipyard. He can stay out in the open ocean and teleport into the base. Come with me.” Without waiting to see if Charles will comply, Erik takes off running down the runway.

* * *

_**Moira** _

Frustrated that Erik would run off like that, Moira grabs Charles by the elbow and hurries him along while he tries to finish the argument with Raven. “It is an important task, Raven! You’ve got to protect the plane, and Hank can’t do that and fly it at the same time.”

“Just make it so they forget we’re here and no one can see the plane, Charles!” Raven hollers at him.

“It would be much odder to have the plane appear and disappear whenever my concentration is elsewhere,” Charles says,  _ sotto voce, _ to Moira as they run a few steps to catch up with Erik.

“You would lose track of something like that?” Moira gives Charles a nervous glance.

“Not at all, if it were necessary, which it isn’t,” Charles says with a reassuring smile.

Moira is not as reassured as she usually is. Charles still has his fingers at his temple, linking minds with Angel who has taken flight, and suddenly Moira wonders if Charles’ reassuring smile typically comes with some telepathic reassurance as well. He’s already stretched thinly, and Moira realizes how dependent this entire mission is on Charles and his power. She exchanges glances with Logan over Charles’ head, and then Logan goes back to visually sweeping the airfield, his military training showing up clearly in his crisp and purposeful movements.

Alex, Sean and Armando are looking around eagerly, pointing things out to each other, talking loudly, and otherwise acting like they don’t realize they’re on a covert mission. They’re relying too much on Charles to smooth the way. They’re all relying too much on Charles.

* * *

**_Charles_ **

Charles is conscious of Logan only a step or two behind him, hovering protectively. He reassures himself that he’s perfectly safe with Logan here, and his survival instinct doesn’t need to take any vigilante action. It’s a bit strange to be lecturing his unconscious mind, but perhaps it will help. The mindlink with Logan was two days ago. The effects might have faded by now. The cut on his leg is still a red line; it’s healing no faster than normal. Perhaps the mental effects have faded as quickly as the physical effects. Yes, he’ll assume the effects of the mindlink have faded and that the survival instinct that has fixated on Erik won’t do anything unexpected. 

Even better, Erik may have decided not to kill Shaw after all. True, he declared his intention during the chess game last night, but then the discussion turned to the idea of a stalemate. Erik didn’t say he’d changed his mind about killing Shaw, but he also didn’t say he hadn’t. Charles clings to that uncertainty. If Erik kills Shaw, he’ll leave Charles. He can’t interfere with Erik’s decision. But he can hope. With everything in him, he can hope. He is, after all, a naive and arrogant optimist, as Erik has repeatedly said. Erik won’t kill Shaw. Charles has to believe that; and he has to stop worrying about it. There is too much else to worry about.

Now that there is no time to do anything about it, Charles is discovering all sorts of applications for his power that he’s never been able to practice before. Interfering with the visual perception of hundreds of people to keep Angel from being seen as she flies over the base; sweeping minds in search of mutants (it jarred him when he found a mutant, and then realized the man had learned to hide his abilities and had never heard of Shaw); keeping the barrage of information from every mind he touches from overwhelming him while he tries to sort out what’s useful and what isn’t; searching for the guards in the nuclear facility while also keeping up every other thing he needs to be doing right now. Plus, he’s walking and Moira keeps talking to him.

Charles talks instead, because he can’t process what Moira is saying and maintain a conversation while he’s doing so many other things. He’ll throw information at Erik and Moira and hope they make sense of it. “The guards at the nuclear facilities haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. I’m looking into the minds of the scientists now - fascinating theories and knowledge, I wish I had time to stop and understand all this. Angel says she can see several more submarines out beyond the shipyards. I’m sweeping the shipyards again. Now out to the ocean. Do you know, I think I’m hearing thought echoes from fish. Do fish have higher thought processes? Perhaps dolphins. That’s curious, I’ve found a telepathic dead zone. I would say there isn’t anything with a mind there, but the zone appears to have sharp edges. This is new, quite curious.”

The stream of chatter cuts off as Charles realizes he’s found something he needs to concentrate on. The puzzle draws him in; he has barely enough mental energy to keep up the perception shielding that’s keeping Angel from being noticed. Then there’s a twist, a yank on his mind, and his senses explode in an overload of sight and sound. With what little attention he has left, he sees walls going up around him. It feels like the reflective shielding on the helmet, only now it’s completely surrounding him. The walls are going up quickly, and if Charles can’t stop her, he’s going to be trapped in this feedback chamber with nothing but his own thoughts and no way out. 

“No!” He doesn’t know if he’s cried out verbally or only in his mind, but his thoughts are twisting, they aren’t entirely his own anymore, he’s fighting her and trying to block out her incursion into his mind. He can hear a woman’s laugh before she dodges out of the way of the mental blow he’s aimed at her. 

Another thing he’s never had a chance to practice is how to defend himself from a telepathic attack.

* * *

**_Logan_ **

“That’s my cue,” Logan says when Chuck’s calm flow of words cuts off in a strangled cry, hands pressed to his ears.

They all know Shaw has a telepath, so he doesn’t understand why Moira looks so shocked. Of course this was going to happen. That’s why they hired him.

Logan catches Chuck around the waist before he can fall. Erik has darted over to help, his hand briefly touching Chuck’s face, which is twisted into a grimace of concentration.

“I got him,” Logan says.

“Keep him out of my way,” is Erik’s only reply. His voice is flat.

“Roger that,” Logan replies, sweeping his arms under Chuck’s back and knees and carrying him back to the plane. Yeah, keep Chuck away from the murderous, vengeful, rampaging bastard. No issue with that. He’ll keep Chuck away from Shaw too.

* * *

_**Sean** _

Sean watches Logan walk away, carrying the professor, and then whips back around. “Now what are we going to do!”

“Shaw’s sub is in the open ocean,” Erik declares. He wraps a hand around Sean’s bicep and pulls him along. “I need sonar.”

“Shit, man! You are not pushing me into the ocean!”

“Then jump,” Erik snaps back. He isn’t letting go.

“I’ll come with you,” Armando offers.

“Alex and I will be at the nuclear facility,” Moira says.

And just like that, they’ve split up and Sean is not happy about it.

* * *

_**Raven** _

Raven sits down in the co-pilot seat next to Hank with an angry huff, arms folded and glaring out the cockpit window.

Hank doesn’t pause in his post-landing checklist.

“He left us behind because we’re blue!” Raven bursts out.

Hank double checks the brake settings. “Or he left us behind because I’m the only one who can fly this thing, and you’re his sister and he doesn’t want you in the line of fire.”

“Whatever. He said all that stuff yesterday about being fine with me being blue, and then he makes me stay behind. He could make people not notice I’m blue!”

Or Raven could choose not to be blue for a few hours in order to lessen the load on Charles a bit, but Hank is not starting that fight. “Did he say anything yesterday about being fine with people shooting at you?”

Raven huffs out an angry breath.

“Look, Raven, you can choose to believe what makes you angry, or you can choose to believe that your brother loves you, even if he’s clumsy about it sometimes,” Hank says.

Raven folds her arms and glares out the window.

Hank doesn’t really need to verify all the fluid levels, but doing so means he doesn’t have to make eye contact with Raven. 

“Oh, shit!” Raven exclaims, and is out of the seat and down the ramp before Hank even looks up.

When he does, he sees Logan walking back towards the plane, carrying Charles, who has both hands clutching his head. 

* * *

**_Angel_ **

When Angel notices people pointing at her and yelling, she cups the edges of her wings to drop speed and altitude, and heads for the trees. Once she’s on the ground, she curses this damn suit they made her wear because she can’t flatten her wings against her skin through the cutout on her back. She’s going to have to halfway undress to hide her wings. Angel strips down to her waist. Once her wings have sealed to her skin, she pulls the suit back up. She should have brought a t-shirt. This clown suit is almost as conspicuous as wings.

Should she hold still and wait for sounds of pursuit? Run for it? Why didn’t anyone tell her what to do if she was seen? 

After several minutes of holding still, Angel has had enough. She never did like playing spies as a kid. If someone finds her, she’ll spit at them.

Angel heads downhill. When she gets to the edge of the trees, she finds out she’s not on the base anymore. The hill is just a slight rise, just enough for her to be able to see the orderly buildings and roads of the naval base behind a nearby chainlink fence, the submarines and dockyards stretching out into the ocean to her left. For a long minute, Angel looks at the base and wonders what will happen to Raven, Armando, Sean and the rest of them. Then she turns and pushes her way back into the trees. She’s going to find some normal clothes, ditch this clown suit and go get a real job.

* * *

**_Hank_ **

Hank is running through the post-flight checklist again with most of his mind, and listening to Raven alternate between fussing over Charles and being angry with him. It’s a wasted effort. Charles hasn’t responded to anything since Logan carried him back into the plane and arranged him on the blanket Raven retrieved from a compartment. Hank has raised the ramp, and there’s nothing they can do but keep Charles’ body safe while his mind does whatever it’s doing right now. Charles isn’t frozen the way Charles can freeze people, and he isn’t being mind-controlled either. He’s in a fight they can’t see, and every so often he hunches more tightly in on himself, or cries out, or tries to strike back at something that isn’t there.

Logan shifts everything out of Charles’ reach and occasionally tries to straighten out the blanket he’s lying on. Hank has already given Logan the plane’s first aid kit, for all the good it will do. Other than checking Charles’ pulse frequently, and making sure he doesn’t hurt himself when he gyrates, there’s nothing to be done.

“Is that sign language? What’s he doing with his hand?” Raven demands of Logan.

“I don’t know,” Logan comments.

Logan is one of those people who has seen and done so much that it’s impossible to freak him out. He makes a nice counterbalance to Raven.

“Hank, look! Does it look like Charles is trying to tell us something?” 

Hank obligingly turns around to see Charles move his hands, which is why he’s looking right at Logan when there’s a puff of red and black smoke behind him and a red man appears out of nowhere. Raven doesn’t even have time to scream. Logan pops his claws, but is gone before he can turn around.

“What happened?! Where did he go!” Raven shrieks.

“Shaw’s teleporter,” Hank says. He clambers out of the pilot seat.

“He’ll come back for Charles! He already kidnapped him once! What are we going to do?!”

Hank has an idea, actually. Pick up Charles and run like hell.

Before he can do it, Raven has morphed into Charles and laid down right next to him. The air pops again. The red man appears with bloody stripes barely beginning to ooze blood down his face. He blinks at the double Charles, and then grabs an ankle of each of them and is gone before Hank can move.

“Fuck that,” Hank says to the dissolving wisps of smoke.

* * *

_**Erik** _

The docks stretch out into the ocean nearly a quarter of a mile, and Erik doesn’t let go of Sean’s arm for the entire length, their footsteps loud on the wood of the dock. His power is touching down on every submarine they pass, searching for the familiar outline of Shaw’s sub. Nearly a year ago, he’d locked his power onto that submarine and almost gotten himself killed. He’s trusting his subconscious to remember the phenomenon well enough to recognize the sub when his power connects with it. These submarines at the docks are configured differently. The United States has finished replacing its diesel electric fleet with nuclear submarines; there’s an entirely different feeling to the propellers and especially the propulsion systems when compared to the Russian diesel electric sub that Shaw fled in. 

At the end of the dock, Erik scans the open ocean where he can see two more submarines that have breached and are holding motionless in the water. Neither of those matches the configuration that his power remembers.

Erik’s power is tuned to the highest sensitivity he can manage, all his concentration poured into sensing and identifying the metal around him. Besides the submarines themselves, he can trace the zippers and buttons in the uniforms of the men, the shape of their sidearms. Most of them are unloaded, here on this training base. That might give the mutants the edge if they need it; the recruits will be bluffing if they pull a gun. 

Behind him come the hum of motors, and Erik reaches back with his power to feel a line of jeeps. They aren’t heading towards them, so he drops the contact just as a rare metal catches his attention. Erik turns, his hand stretching out to focus his power without using it to move anything. He can sense the gold-painted insignia of an Army major, but it his sidearm that catches Erik’s attention. Erik pauses at the weapon and slides his power into it. There. The bullets aren’t the typical lead core with a jacket alloy. They’re solid adamantium. 

His attention is pulled back to the dock when Sean twists out of his grasp, leaps from the dock and lands in a crouch on a floating deck loaded with crates and tied to a submarine. Erik’s mouth twists into a sardonic smile at Sean’s actions. He decided to jump rather than get pushed after all. Armando follows him an instant later, and then leaps into the water. Erik follows them, landing on the floating deck in time to see gills erupt from Armando’s neck. He’s holding himself barely under the water, next to the deck, eyes on Sean.

“That way?” Sean asks, pointing towards the open ocean.

“Good enough to start,” Erik says. 

Sean takes a deep breath, plunges his head under the water, and screams. Armando has his fingers in his ears, which he removes as soon as Sean pulls his head back out of the water and Armando fully submerges himself. Armando cocks his head, concentrating hard, and Erik wonders if he’s evolved the ability to hear by sonar. He regrets keeping himself out of the general training exercises. Charles or Logan would know the extent of Armando’s abilities right now. 

It turns out Sean and Armando don’t need Erik’s involvement. Armando sticks his head out of the water and points slightly east and tells Sean to scream again in that direction. Sean complies.

“Hey! What are you doing? Are you authorized to be here?”

Erik turns to see two men in Navy whites climbing out of the submarine that their floating deck is tied to.

“It’s there! I can hear the echo! About a mile out. Also, the whole ocean just filled up with pings, Sean. I think the other subs are looking for whatever is sending out the sonic blasts,” Armando says, shaking water out of his hair as his gills fade back into the smooth skin of his neck.

“It’s all you now, Erik,” Sean says, his gaze bouncing between the open ocean where Armando says he’s heard a sonar echo, and the two men who are now climbing down a ladder from the submarine’s hatch.

Erik’s power is sliding through the water, ignoring the trace metals in the ocean. Knowing which direction to seek is all the information he needs, and within a few seconds, he’s found the sub, his power sliding over it in recognition and anger. It escaped him last time; that won’t happen again.

_ The point between rage and serenity. _ The sentence is a memory, but it comes in Charles’ voice, and that’s enough for Erik.

* * *

_**Armando** _

Armando pulls himself up on to the floating deck next to the submarine, the water sheeting off his blue and yellow suit, in time to hear Sean say, “oh, damn,” in a resigned voice. Armando follows Sean’s gaze to see the open hatch of the submarine, and the two Navy men standing on the hull of the sub.

“Don’t shoot!” Armando calls out, raising his hands. Erik has said the weapons won’t be loaded, and a bullet wouldn’t kill Armando anyway, but they may as well look cooperative and buy Erik some time for whatever he thinks he’s going to do once they find the sub. Now that he thinks of it, Armando has no idea what Erik is going to do with Shaw’s submarine. 

“Name, rank and serial number!” the older Navy man shouts at them. Armando regrets not knowing anything about Naval rank or protocol. He can’t even lie plausibly. The man’s name tag says ‘Kelmsley.’ Kelsmley has light brown hair in a military crew cut and shoulders that strain the fabric of his uniform. He’s as tall as Erik and thirty pounds heavier, which makes him a whole lot bigger than Armando. There’s a sneer on his lip that Armando recognizes. Kelmsley doesn’t like black guys. Armando takes half a step back. The other guy is Bawden, skinnier and younger, staring at Sean and Armando with outrage.

“I’m Sean Cassidy and this is Armando Muňoz. We’re with the CIA. Our team lead cleared us to be here. We, like, got permission from someone official or something like that. We’re here because there’s this guy who’s going to do something bad and we’re going to stop him,” Sean explains, hands in the air.

It may be the truth, but it sure sounds like bullshit.

Sean throws him a look. Armando replies with just the tiniest shake of his head. The armed forces may be integrated, but he didn’t see a single black soldier on their mad dash across the base to the dockyards. He knows enough to let the white guy do the talking, even if he does sound like an idiot.

“What’s he doing?” Kelmsley asks, pointing at Erik.

Sean and Armando turn to see Erik down on one knee, both hands outstretched to the ocean as if in prayer, straining so hard he’s trembling and a bead of sweat leaves a wet trail down his cheek.

“That’s kind of a long story, and you probably wouldn’t believe it anyway,” Sean says.

“Try me.”

“Uh,” Sean stalls.

“You tell me,” Kelmsley says, pointing at Armando.

“He didn’t tell us what he was planning to do,” Armando replies truthfully. “I didn’t think it was my place to ask. He just wanted some help with some sonar stuff, and he’s good at sonar.” Armando points at Sean. Kelmsley’s eyes are drilling into him. Armando didn’t say anything uppity, but that doesn’t mean Kelmsley won’t find something wrong with it anyway.

“Sonar?” Kelmsley says. “What did you find with your sonar? Where’s your equipment?”

“It’s, um, internalized equipment. And I found a submarine he’s been looking for,” Sean replies, pointing at Erik again.

Erik is down on both knees now. The strain on his face has eased into something deeper, as if the effort has gone beyond pain. 

Kelmsley looks at the three of them for a long second and then turns to Bawden. “Get on the radio to Commander Archambault. Tell him I’m escorting in three unauthorized personnel and ask for security.” Kelmsley leaps from the hull of the submarine to the floating deck, making it wobble in the water. He points at the ladder behind them. “Go. That’s an order.”

Sean looks from Erik to Armando and then shrugs. “Sure thing.” 

Armando scrambles up the ladder behind Sean, leaving Erik behind.

“What about him?” Kelmsley asks them, pointing at Erik, who is breathing heavily, oblivious to anything around him.

“I don’t tell him what to do,” Sean says. “Kinda the opposite, actually.”

The ocean beyond the dockyards begins to boil. Erik groans like it’s the last breath in his body and a submarine erupts from the ocean, water pouring off of it in sheets.

Damn. So that’s what Erik wanted to do with the submarine.

Kelmsley swears a blue streak. He pulls a gun and leaps back onto the floating deck. It must be unloaded because he’s raised the weapon to pistol whip Erik, who has stood up, oblivious to everything but the submarine, conducting its movements like a symphony as it flies over the dockyards, propeller churning at nothing. The glory of Erik’s power crackles around him in a penumbra of might and majesty, magnetism making the air ring and his entire body focused on the power pouring out of him. It’s one of those sights that is so beautiful that Armando knows his soul will ache at the memory of it for years to come. He hopes it’s a comfort in the cell he’ll rot in for the rest of his life, assuming he doesn’t get lynched, because he’s just tackled a white man and dumped them both into the ocean while Erik guides the submarine through the air as if it weighs no more than a bubble.

* * *

_**Angel** _

Angel is sticking close to the edge of the tree line, one eye on the fence topped with barbed wire that she’s keeping on her left while she heads north, away from the ocean. She needs to steal some clothes. These suits are too conspicuous. If anything goes wrong while the mutants are trying to stop Shaw, she’s essentially wearing a target and no one is going to pause long enough to listen to her explain that she didn’t really mean to join them. Professor Xavier hasn’t popped back into her head, which is a relief. He’d probably read her mind and then force her to stay. Telepathy is so creepy.

There’s a break in the trees just ahead, most likely a road. She can follow that to the nearest town, or just long enough to find a hiding space where she can wait until dark and then fly. This boot pinches her foot. Flying would definitely be better. At the thought of flight, Angel looks up, and then her heart lurches in her chest. Someone else is flying! Two of them! No, just one. Except he isn’t flying. He’s falling.

Angel fumbles at the fastenings on her suit. She can’t get them undone fast enough; her wings are still trapped; she’s not going to make it. That man is going to crash and die right in front of her and it’s all her fault because she put her wings away. There, the suit is open, but now her arm is stuck in the sleeve in the tight fabric. She can’t get enough of her back exposed to set her wings free.

The man crashes into the tree and bounces all the way down, his body flopping around like a rag doll. Angel clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream when he lands in front of her.

Logan sits up, pops his neck, looks around and says, “Angel?”

She can’t do this anymore; she just can’t. She gets her arm out of the sleeve, pulls the suit down and peels her wings off her skin. The fluttering is the feeling of freedom, and she can take a deep breath for the first time since Alex basically dragged her onto the Blackbird.

“I gotta go, Logan,” Angel says, stuffing her arm back into that damn suit.

“Get me back to the plane first,” Logan says. “They’re after Chuck again.”

Angel shakes her head. She doesn’t have super-strength to carry someone Logan’s size. “I can’t.” She didn’t mean to cry, but the word catches in her throat and comes out on a sob.

Logan’s eyes soften a bit as he looks at her. “I get it, kid.”

That’s it; Angel will come undone if she stays here another second. With a crouch and a spring, she takes off straight up, and just as quickly plummets back to earth. This time, she can’t keep the scream in.

Above them, a submarine, still sheeting ocean water off its hull, sails past them and then crashes to the ground, skidding, taking out trees, the fence, the road and anything else in its way.

“Well, I guess I found Chuck,” Logan comments.

* * *

_**Moira** _

Walking purposefully and refusing to make eye contact with anyone, Moira and Alex gathered a few strange looks on their walk across the base, but no challenges. The Base Commander knows the CIA is authorized to be here, and he was to brief the security personnel in the Nuclear Research and Development facility, but the rest of the soldiers will make the assumption that they would have been stopped before entry if they weren’t authorized. Perhaps their suits are being mistaken for prototype naval gear, some sort of high-tech wetsuit for working at depth. With the durability that Hank has built into the fabric, that might be a good idea, actually; Moira makes a mental note to talk to Levene about it. They could trade the technology to the military for information. Technically, Hank still works for the CIA, so he wouldn’t have any ownership rights to his inventions. 

The reminder about the trades the CIA is willing to make for military information casts a pall over her thoughts. Levene welcomed Stryker and his information with open arms, and Moira’s outrage about Stryker’s involvement in Charles’ abduction fell on deaf ears.

“He’s confessed to being an accessory to kidnapping,” Moira had said, using a level voice because she knows from experience that if she betrays so much as an iota of her feelings, Levene will dismiss her as an emotional woman and ignore everything she says. Erik may have cause to be angry that mutants have to hide their powers in order to blend into society, but it’s not like mutants are the only group of people who have to hide essential aspects of themselves in order to be accepted.

Levene simply shook his head and talked about all the useful information they’d gotten from Stryker. Then he’d wanted Charles to wear the helmet again. For the first time in her career, Moira’s loyalties began to tear in half. Her first loyalty was to the United States of America, and always would be. In her mind, Charles and the rest of his mutant band were Americans before they were mutants (even if Erik was technically German), and that demanded a certain level of respect for their rights and dignity.

Orders have never grated on her like this before, especially knowing that Levene is keeping things from her. He’s told her as much - explaining that he doesn’t trust Dr. Xavier not to pull it out of her head, so she’s better off not knowing certain things. It’s left her floundering, and newly appreciative of Erik’s frustration with her for the year she spent measuring out information about Shaw to him instead of giving him everything.

Just these past few days, Moira has begun to understand Erik better than she ever wanted to - the way it degrades your self-respect to have someone decide you’re not trustworthy; the edginess that comes from always hiding what you really think and feel; the cynicism that feels more reliable than hope; the anguish that Charles will know more about you than anyone else, and still not understand why you have to do the things you must do to retain your own integrity. 

Moira did not pass on the order for Charles to mind-wipe anyone who saw something attributable to mutant power. The decisions about how to handle these sorts of people cannot be made in secret. She’s hoping that something will happen on this base to force humanity to acknowledge that mutants exist.

At Alex’s exclamation, Moira follows his pointing finger to see a submarine sailing above the warehouses and go crashing into the fence and forest at the eastern edge of the base.

Yes, something like that.

* * *

_**Raven** _

Traveling by red smoke is the grooviest thing Raven has ever done. One second she was lying on the floor of the plane’s cabin, trying to match movement and sound with Charles, and the next she is floating in a realm that shivered every nerve in her body, just for an instant, and then she’s landed on a smooth floor. In the impact, she flickers her eyes open just for an instant, just enough to be a believable reaction. The entire wall before her is a mirror, and there’s a woman in the room with her eyes shut too; that’s all she sees before she shuts her eyes again.

“What the hell, Azazel?” someone says from the other side of a door she didn’t have time to look for.

“There were two; I bring two,” Azazel replies, somewhat sullenly, as if he’s expecting to be scolded.

“Prepare a second dose,” the voice orders. “Damn you! Get back here!”

Raven is going to assume the teleporter already left again. She’s also going to assume that Shaw is the one yelling, since he sounds like boss man in charge and she already hates him. And preparing a dose? Like hell he’s pumping her brother full of drugs again. A long minute goes by with nothing Raven can hear.

There’s a swish, like one of those groovy doors that slides into the wall instead of opening normally, and then Shaw walks into the room. She waits until the footsteps are close, and then they stop. Shaw crouches down as Raven explodes upwards in a jab and a punch that would have connected if the floor hadn’t skewed underneath them, dumping every one of them into the wall that just traded places with the floor.

* * *

**_Janos_ **

Janos prepares the second syringe after Azazel teleports away, then leaves Shaw to administer the dose. He walks out of that fancy living room to return to the control room, trying to put as much distance as he can between himself and the three telepaths on board right now: Emma Frost and two versions of Charles Xavier. Shaw had not told them that Xavier had an identical twin. The mental battle manifests to the psi-blind as surges of wild sensations that trick Janos’ senses. Azazel is gone; Shaw is wearing the helmet he stole from the Russians. Janos is the only one vulnerable to the invisible power surging through the air; of course he is treated as expendable. 

Another power surges, and Janos feels like the room has gone sideways. The sensation is real enough that he hangs on to the edges of his chair, which is bolted to the deck in front of the navigational display. The depth readings go wild and he hears shouts from the others as they go tumbling as well. It’s the coherence of the chaos that convinces Janos that this one is really happening; the other hallucinations have been disjointed and mismatched. The bolts groan with the effort of holding the hull together. 

There is a clink and a shatter when the syringes and bottles of telepathic drugs hit the deck and break, accompanied by the general noise of everything in the living compartment that wasn’t bolted down getting thrown around. Janos tenses; Shaw will likely blame him for not returning everything to the foam casing. Emma’s antidote would have broken along with the rest of the drugs; Shaw promised Emma the antidote as soon as Xavier was drugged.

The submarine levels out, but the movement is wrong. It’s as if the sub is moving sideways without encountering any friction from the water. When the deck stays level for a few seconds, Janos makes a dash to the periscope and uncaps the lens. The view is entirely incomprehensible for several seconds, until Janos convinces himself that he is looking at trees and a road.

“Sir,” Janos says, “we’re not in the water anymore.”

Shaw’s smile is pure and unexpected delight, with a predatory tinge like a cat who has just caught a mouse. “Wonderful. Our prodigal has returned.”

As the sub skews again, Janos pitches backwards so hard he loses his grip on the periscope and crashes into an instrument panel affixed to the pressure hull. The sudden violent impact gives way to a rough skid, and then the entire sub comes to a halt, skewed on its side. The lights flare before going out entirely, plunging the submarine into darkness. Janos is only a step away from the access trunk. His hands find the rung of the ladder, and he starts scrabbling up the steeply canted ladder. 

It’s time to abandon ship.

* * *

**_Angel_ **

Logan is running towards the sub, claws out, before it has even stopped its violent progress through trees and fence, feet surefooted through the wreck of the terrain as the submarine uproots everything in its path while Angel stands, still stunned at the wreckage. Logan leaps onto the hull and plunges his claws into the metal to gain purchase on the overhang. She’s never seen anyone so big move so fast. It’s the work of a few seconds until he is on a convex surface and he doesn’t need his claws to keep him from falling off. Only a few feet behind him, the propellers continue to spin uselessly in the air. The sub is pitched at a 60 degree angle, with that big thing on the top with the antennae and periscope pointing away from him, the periscope still extended.

Angel decides that she can give Logan ten more seconds before she abandons them all. Besides, no one is going to care if they see a girl flying around after seeing a flying submarine. She launches straight up. From above, the devastation is spectacular, like a tornado has come through here and thrown around trees and scraped the land raw. The road has broken, asphalt scattered around like it was no more than glass. In the distance, sirens wail, and Angel spares a glance for the crowds of men in Navy uniforms already sprinting towards the smashed fence.

She follows Logan’s dash towards the hatch, and half-hovers on the rail around the deck, feet taking some of her weight, wings buzzing and ready to launch again in a second. Turning her head, she spits acid onto the hull where it bursts into a flame and sizzle, more flashy than effective though. It may eat through the hull if given enough time, but not very fast. Logan nods at the demonstration and says, “be ready with another mouthful of that.”

Logan is prying at those things buckling the hatch into place when he jumps back right in front of Angel, throwing out both arms in a wide X. The hatch blows open from the inside, and Angel realizes that Logan positioned himself to take a bullet for her, if someone emerged shooting. 

The man emerging from the hatch doesn’t have a gun. He has shoulder length black hair and is wearing a purple suit with a skinny black tie. He’s also the most gorgeous creature she’s ever seen. Gorgeous men are rather a specialty of hers. He isn’t military and he’s scared. Logan has shifted from being a human shield to a menacing crouch, claws out and growling. 

“Uh,” the man says, and he looks past Logan to Angel. She recognizes that look, almost like she’s got telepathy now. He just wants to get out of here.

Angel lifts off the railing of the deck, her feet touching down briefly on Logan’s shoulders. “I’m going AWOL. Want to come?”

There’s just a tiny nod.

Will Logan see that reducing Shaw’s team by one is the best she can do in this fight? 

Angel can’t carry him, but she can get him off the sub in a controlled fall. It’s a good 40 feet to the ground from here, and the other side of the sub is about to be overrun by guys in uniforms with guns. Hovering over him, she holds out a hand. He takes it, and she flies them off the submarine, losing altitude slowly enough to not break his leg when he lands. Behind them, Logan shouts, “If you hurt her, I will find you!”

The man looks up at her with heart-melting brown eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Good, then I won’t drop you.”

“I’m Janos.”

“Angel.”

Angel lets go. Janos falls to his knees, scrambles back up and looks up at her. “Lead the way, my Angel. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

Angel smothers the smile until she’s zipping along in a low altitude flight, face turned away from Janos so he doesn’t see it.

* * *

_**Alex** _

Alex stares at the submarine until it drops out of his sight, though the sound of its impact sets the air to humming like the biggest bass speaker ever, playing rock and roll at full volume. Damn, Erik is as destructive as he is. Pretty far out. Maybe he can blow something up too. It’s not like anything he can do is going to be crazier than yanking a submarine out of the ocean and tossing it onto land like a G.I. Joe toy. For once in his life, Alex gets to be the second-most destructive person around, and Erik will catch all the flak. Awesome.

“There!” Moira shouts, pointing.

Alex follows Moira’s finger towards a warehouse-size building with metal siding and no windows. The doors are covered in radiation warning signs. Oh. Blowing up a nuclear facility might actually get him in more trouble than flying a submarine around. Should he try to outdo Erik? Would that be a bad idea?

They’re running against the crowd streaming towards the beached submarine. It takes some dodging, and sticking close to the walls before Moira guides them to a side door. 

“Hey, what exactly are we doing?” Alex asks.

“Stopping anyone who looks like they’re trying to steal a nuclear reactor or enriched uranium,” Moira replies.

“They gonna be wearing a uniform or something?”

“The thief is likely to be a teleporter. His tell is red smoke, so keep a sharp eye out,” Moira replies.

Alex has heard of the teleporter. Shaw also has a telepath, which is why Professor X got wiped out so fast. And the tornado dude. Shit, a tornado could cause some problems too. Now he’s only the third-most destructive person around. Hanging out with other mutants is actually pretty groovy.

The door is locked. Moira picks up the big padlock and rattles the chain. They’re at a side door, one of those big utility doors that can roll up so a truck can drive in. Alex wonders how much the CIA told the base commander about what was going on. Shouldn’t they have about a hundred people standing around the nuclear building with guns drawn and super angry expressions? Why are they sneaking in? Still, Alex has learned it’s futile to ask adults questions when they think they’re handling the situation.

“Want me to try?” Alex asks when Moira’s angry look fails to unlock the padlock.

Moira raises her eyebrows.

“My aim is really good now,” Alex offers. 

Moira steps back.

“Maybe take another step back. Maybe stand behind me,” Alex suggests.

Moira takes the suggestion.

Alex’s power comes in jerks. It doesn’t build gradually, and once it’s there, it’s there and he’s gotta blow at something. Professor X has him doing all sorts of control exercises, and one of them is to vary the amount of power, so his blast isn’t full-strength every time. He takes a deep breath, and reaches into the area of his brain he thinks of as Command & Control and issues an order for half power. There’s the familiar jerk that convulses his body, and that usually affects his aim because he has to move, and then his power has gone off.

The smell of burnt metal wafts up from where the door used to be. 

Moira just looks up at him sideways.

“The building is still there,” Alex points out.

“Good work,” Moira replies, and then dashes through the gaping hole, edges still smoking.

Did she mean that?

Then the alarm went off.

* * *

_**Commander Swann  
** _

One of the first principles drilled into a recruit’s head at basic training is that you follow the orders no matter what. Some orders are stupid. Some orders turn out to be unnecessary. Some orders are contradictory. But you follow orders. 

The more Commander Swann gets promoted, the more he can push back at nonsensical orders. That hadn’t worked on the phone call with Base Commander Archambault.

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s impossible to steal a nuclear reactor,” Commander Swann had tried to explain earlier that day, wondering why Commander Archambault didn’t already know this. He was a good commander; he knew their research and development facility was currently testing more efficient configurations for the primary coolant system in an effort to reduce noise. The only working reactor in the entire building was located dead center, behind so many layers of security personnel and locked doors that theft was impossible. Theft wasn’t the main concern actually, vandalism was. Nuclear reactors are too big to steal. It would be like trying to steal the Empire State Building. The worry is vandalism, not theft.

“That’s what the CIA told me; that’s what I’m passing on to you. There is a credible threat that the nuclear reactor will be stolen,” Archambault had repeated.

Commander Swann let his silence communicate for him. Perhaps the CIA has gotten enriched uranium or fuel rod assemblies confused for the entire reactor.

Archambault blew out a long sigh. “Look, Swann, I get it. But what I got came from the CIA, and I’ve gotten some confirmation from a military source that I can’t ignore. The nuclear reactor is vulnerable to theft. Increase security and report anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, even a puff of smoke. Actually, especially a puff of smoke.”

“Understood, sir,” Swann had replied, because what else could he say?

Swann gave the orders to the MPs, and tasked a few new lieutenants and enlisted technicians to stand around with their unloaded guns and look vigilant. The oddness of the orders put him on edge. They have ceramic oxide demonstrations planned today, and this meaningless security drill is causing delay.

“Sir!” 

It’s Lieutenant Yancy, one of the young geniuses who is working on his Ph.D in nuclear engineering. They’ve brought him on board to balance out the nuclear physicists and create the contraptions that actually test the stuff they put on the drawing board. He can build anything the physicists can design. 

Perhaps they’ve apprehended an intruder, and things can get back to normal now.

“Sir! There’s uh, there’s a submarine! It isn’t in the ocean anymore, sir!”

Swann raises an eyebrow.

“Sir! There’s a flying submarine, sir!” Lieutenant Yancy snaps to attention, as if a military posture can make his words less preposterous.

That’s about as ridiculous as someone stealing his nuclear reactor.

“Is there a tornado to go along with it?” Swann asks.

“Sir?”

“Is there a tornado? If a submarine is flying, there must be a tornado. Also a dog named Toto. And then we land in Oz. Did I miss anything?”

“If you could come see,” Yancy says, pointing out the door. There aren’t any windows in the interior of the R&D facility.

Commander Swann gives Lieutenant Yancy a long look as he stands up from his desk and walks past him to the door. Yancy looks nervous, which is a lot more logical than the other things going on today.

Swann’s office is on the building’s second level, where he can oversee the assembly floor. He goes down the echoing metal steps, trailed by Yancy, and crosses the floor, passing the technicians who are going about their jobs and ignoring the oddness of the day. They exit next to the east bay doors onto a loading dock.

“Well?” Swann asks. The sky is notably clear of submarines.

“It was there,” Yancy insists weakly.

“Mm-hmm.”

There is a more than typical amount of foot traffic, and an alarm going off in the distance, but alarms frequently go off. 

Then the building shakes with an explosion and Swann runs back into the building as the alarm began to sound. He knew vandalism was a bigger concern than theft. “All hands!”

The personnel in the facility are already falling in and spreading out in the drilled response; an explosion could cause a containment breach. Within a few seconds, Ensign Drucker approaches at a run.

“Sir! The south delivery door has been vaporized! Sir!”

“Vaporized?”

“Sir! The south delivery door is completely missing, along with the door frame and casing! Sir!”

Something shifts inside Swann’s head, and a memory replaces his skepticism. His younger brother, impossible events, things no one could explain, and then it all went away and his brother disappeared. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to Oz.

* * *

_**Sean** _

Erik left them behind. Sean isn’t super surprised by that, just mildly pissed off. You would think Erik could take a second to notice that Armando tackled the guy who was going to take him out, but no, Erik believes he’s invincible, so Armando deserves no more loyalty than your average force of nature.

Corporal Bawden is pointing a gun at them while Captain Kelmsley clambers onto the floating deck a lot less gracefully than Armando did. Erik and Moira both said the guns would be unloaded, but it’s not like either one of them are here right now to be reassuring about that. Armando won’t die if they shoot him; he’ll turn into a big hulk of a shield, so if Sean dives behind him when they fire (because he’ll somehow be able to move faster than the bullet, sure, let’s go with that), he won’t get shot. Are these suits bulletproof? Why didn’t Hank make the suits bulletproof?

Kelmsley is yelling really loudly. A lot. Apparently, he’s going to skin them alive, and that’s the nicest suggestion he’s made so far. Sean is pretty sure none of that is going to happen (because mutants), but the thing is, Armando looks like he believes it. Armando looks as much like a ghost as he’s ever seen a black man look. Sean has heard that kind of language used by white men before, but never when the black man was his friend. He’s kind of ashamed of himself for never getting totally pissed off about that kind of shit before now. What? Like he didn’t realize how humiliating it would be for a black guy to just stand there and let some white guy piss words on him? 

What’s he supposed to do? He’s seventeen years old and can’t even get girls to go on dates with him. There’s this asshole who is apparently a captain and won’t let him get a word in edgewise to explain anything. Come to think of it, Sean didn’t know what he’d say. Mostly, he could make them sound crazy, and that wouldn’t do much for Armando’s peace of mind. 

He leans over and pulls on Armando’s sleeve. Armando about jumps out of his skin. “Dude, it’s just me. Let’s go, okay?”

“No talking!” Kelmsley yells.

“How about yelling? You’re yelling. I bet I win the yelling contest,” Sean says. 

He screams. Armando grows some kind of shield around his ears. Sean isn’t using a death frequency anyway. He killed a bird once by screaming at it. He’s not sure that would work on humans, and it’s not like he can experiment and find out, but he doesn’t want anyone’s death on his conscience. So he uses the frequency that causes a lot of pain and nothing else. Well, maybe some hearing loss, but it’s not like he can experiment with that either. Maybe he’ll look these guys up later and find out if they need hearing aids.

Kelmsley and Bawden fall to their knees, hands over their ears and heads bowed. It’s a nice look for them. They look as scared as they’ve made Armando. Assholes.

“Go,” Sean says, pointing at the ladder. 

Armando goes first. Before Sean swarms up the ladder, he checks back over his shoulder. Kelmsley and Bawden are already trying to get to their feet. He inhales, and they both cover their ears and drop to the deck again.

“And stay there!” Sean shouts at them, putting just enough Banshee in his voice to ring in their ears. Internalized sonar equipment, oh yeah, he’s all over that.

“Follow Erik!” Sean tells Armando, who has stopped dead at the top of the ladder. How hard can it be to find the flying submarine?

“Us and everyone else,” Armando points out.

Yeah, there is that. The entire base is swarming with Navy guys in uniforms all running in the same direction, and Sean is willing to bet that not all of those guns are unloaded, especially not the big ones carried by the guys whose uniforms have MP on their armbands. The mass of humanity parts for jeeps and ambulances, but there’s no way he and Armando are going to get past that mess, especially once those MP guys set up some kind of a perimeter.

Sean sweeps his eyes over the base and grins when he realizes how close they are to the Submarine Escape Training Tower, 150 feet tall, the opposite way of the crowds. He grabs Armando’s arm as he starts to run, pointing with his other hand. “Hey Darwin! Wanna fly?”

* * *

_**Azazel** _

Azazel should not have dropped Weapon X. Shaw forbade him from dropping anyone while they are at the New London Submarine Base; it would be too conspicuous. Shaw wants them to be in and back out before anyone notices their presence. That possibility disappeared when Emma announced that the telepath brought a team with him. Still, Azazel will try to remember that he should not drop anyone else to their deaths.

This means he needs another destination in mind for his next execution. Murder does not bother Azazel; though he rarely stays to watch the actual death. He’s been called the devil, and he takes a perverse sort of pleasure from the thought of people believing that the devil himself arranged for their deaths. If there is a devil, Azazel thinks they might get along. They would not be friends; Azazel does not have friends. However, there are occasionally people he does not wish to kill, like Shaw. Shaw would likely get along with the devil as well. Shaw’s plans to start a nuclear war to decimate the human population and leave the world wide open to mutant domination is devilry itself. The way Shaw plans to pin responsibility for the nuclear war on two human governments so the surviving population will be willing to look to anyone else for post-apocalyptic leadership is downright demonic.

Submarines are built at the New London Submarine Base. New London also tests propulsion designs, and has an operating nuclear reactor isolated in a building, solely for the purpose of testing new engineering. Stealing a nuclear reactor that has been installed in a submarine would take expertise and hours of work to detach it. Azazel can’t simply sever the reactor from the propulsion system and teleport away without risking a meltdown.

Planning out how much of the nuclear reactor to take is time consuming. Azazel can control how much he takes with him on a teleportation, up to a point. It isn’t merely physical contact that determines how much he teleports, or parts of the ground he stands on would come with him every time. The mental effort of teleportation involves visualizing what should come, and visualizing the destination. The trouble with the nuclear reactor is that he can’t visualize machines as well as he can visualize people. People are self-limiting - he can easily see to take the body and the cloth touching the body (though he left a ski parka behind once when he teleported out of a snowstorm). Machines are more difficult. There isn’t a clear line of organic and inorganic between a machine and its housing. To take an object without taking everything touching it requires a special mental effort.

There is also the question of mass. Azazel does have a limit. He can’t teleport the submarine, for example, though Shaw did ask. A nuclear reactor weighs somewhere north of a thousand tons, once you factor in the shield tank, steam generator, the coolant system, the water in the coolant system, the foundation and all the wires and ductwork that attach the heart of the nuclear reactor to the propulsion system. Azazel can’t teleport that much mass, and Shaw has said he doesn’t need it all. Therefore, Azazel will only take what Shaw needs. 

However, nuclear reactors do not come apart like Legos. 

The propulsion systems at the New London Submarine Base are in the process of being built; final assembly occurs inside the submarine itself. None of the items in this R&D building look like the diagrams of nuclear reactors that Shaw has had him studying. Not surprisingly, it has been impossible to find reliable information about how to steal only part of a nuclear reactor. The perimeter of the R&D Building appears to be the preliminary stages; none of these devices have the housing for the fuel rods. Azazel makes his way deeper into the building.

He should have snatched Frost when he teleported away from the submarine. The pain from the three claw marks on his face discomposed him, though, and with Shaw already yelling at him to prepare a syringe when he knows that Azazel doesn’t do needles, his thought was to get out of there immediately. Once Dr. Xavier was neutralized, Frost was to accompany him to the reactor complex and stop anyone who tried to interfere with Azazel’s work to find the nuclear reactor that is operational enough to be useful to Shaw without being attached to more mass than Azazel can transport. 

Nearer the center of the building he sees enormous containment structures with external secondary coolant tubing and steam turbine machinery. A submarine is most likely to be detected by the noise its propulsion system makes, and so these reactors are designed and contained to be as silent as possible. Shaw’s contact in the military told them that New London is testing reactor designs; this nuclear reactor is not being built inside of a submarine. Azazel is stealing a prototype reactor. He follows a grinding hum past another door marked with radiation cautions. The locked door just means he teleports to the other side rather than walking through it.  

The explosion shakes the building, and then an alarm begins to sound and men begin to run. Azazel slips down into a crouch, with no more sophistication than a child playing hide-and-seek. He stays out of sight of the soldiers with weapons. He must act quickly, before the area is entirely overrun with soldiers. 

Around the next corner, he spots two people, and they are being as quiet as he is. The guards have made no effort to be quiet. He concludes that these two people are looking for him, which means the best chance he has is to grab them and teleport before they can raise a further alarm. Fortunately, he has a destination in mind that is not hundreds of feet in the air.

Azazel moves on soundless feet to circle behind them. The lighting in the nuclear facility is excellent, and he tracks shadows rather than the people themselves. When he does catch a glimpse, he sees they are wearing the same blue and yellow uniforms that the professors were wearing. A man and a woman. Convenient of them to identify themselves. 

All three of them freeze in place while another soldier makes a circuit and passes out of the area again. Dropping down between the two suited figures, Azazel clamps a hand around each arm and teleports away. When he returns an instant later, the warm water sluices off his body to the floor as he runs the last few steps to position himself behind the reactor. With a few quick movements, he separates the generator and powers down the turbines. 

Azazel lays a hand on the containment structure and another hand on the external secondary coolant loop and calls up the visualization of the submarine. His mutation hooks into the visualization, and then he gives himself the ‘go’ order. The world winks out, but it pops back in only momentarily, before stuttering into a new location. He’d visualized the submarine, but the submarine was not where he’d expected it to be, and his power skidded along the surprise, trying to catch up. He can teleport in and out of moving objects, but only if he knows what to expect. The submarine was not supposed to move.

With panic, Azazel clamps his visualization around the entire reactor, trying to keep it whole, but he can feel his mutation scrabbling at the unexpected change in destination. The shape of the reactor shifts in his visualization. Azazel locks his mind around everything left. Top priority is keeping the coolant system intact. 

Azazel may like death, but he doesn’t want to see a mushroom cloud up close.

* * *

**_Alex_ **

When Alex is tense, his power gathers. He’d forgotten that detail. In the past several months at the Professor’s mutant school, he’s gradually relaxed, like, really relaxed, enough that he isn’t constantly freaking out about killing people. When he’s used his power, it’s been in safe environments in which he’s just experimenting rather than fighting for his life. One thing he hasn’t practiced with the professor is how to gather his power and then  _ not _ use it. How does reabsorption work? Will he blow up his own intestines? 

Blowing up the lock on the door, or the entire section of the wall containing the door if you want to be picky about it, worked out fine, but now they’re inside a nuclear fucking facility trying to stop a mutant from steal a nuclear fucking reactor and that’s kind of a high-stress situation, especially with that alarm going off and people running around. Blowing off a plasma blast inside this place will probably put him back on the top of the list of “most destructive mutant here.” He’s concentrating so hard on not setting himself off that he’s not paying any attention to what they’re doing. Moira is in charge; Alex is just following her.

The pressure in his chest is building, gathered up from the plasma charge throughout his body, aching with the focus. He’s got to get out of here. He ought to tell Moira what’s going on, but he isn’t sure he’ll last that long, especially if she wants to talk this out. Maybe another small blast? Surely there’s another wall here that isn’t entirely necessary. Breath ragged, Alex looks around for something he can destroy without fucking up what the rest of his team is trying to do.

Behind him, a hand seizes his shoulder, and the world disappears. There is a subdued pop, the world reappears, entirely wet, and then the hand disappears from his shoulder. Before Alex can process the fact that he’s underwater, he’s taken half a breath. The water is warm and clear; this isn’t the Atlantic Ocean. The next hand on his shoulder is Moira’s and she’s frantically blowing bubbles at him. Alex’s half breath of water is convulsing in his chest, and he has only enough presence of mind to see that there is a wall behind Moira, with rivets in it, and a light source. The power coiled in his body is forcing a release in any event.

Alex aims his next convulsion to wrap his legs around Moira’s torso and force her beneath him, and then his chest explodes with a plasma blast that hits the wall, rips it asunder, and the next explosion throws them through water, air and metal, and for all that, he still can’t breathe. 

* * *

**_Armando_ **

Sean drags on Armando’s arm as they near the top of the 150 foot Submarine Escape Training Tower. Running stairs is no one’s favorite pastime, but Armando’s mutation has conveniently expanded his lung capacity enough to dash up the stairs, hauling Sean with him.

The platform at the top of the SETT is already occupied by men with guns and handheld radios who are intently looking over the naval base that has erupted into chaos just because a submarine temporarily turned into an airplane. Sean is too winded to speak, which leaves Armando scraping up words.

“Uh, hi. We saw that submarine get hauled up out of the ocean and thought we’d report in. You know.”

An officer in Navy whites rakes a glance over Sean and Armando’s uniforms, which are definitely not Navy issue. From the top of the tower, Armando has a clear view of the submarine, lying on its side at the east end of the base, centered in a field of destruction. 

Damn. 

Erik is scary.

Before someone official can ask them who they are, the tower beneath their feet rumbles ominously with a muffled explosion, and then the metal starts shrieking as the platform cants to one side. The screech of torn metal mixes with the rumble of an impending flood.

“Sean!” Armando yells.

Sean grabs Armando with a Banshee shriek, and they glide off the collapsing tower, aiming for the submarine. Beneath them, a river pours out of the SETT and floods the naval base.

* * *

**_Logan_ **

Logan hasn’t been inside a submarine since a bad experience in a World War I U-boat. Damn, he hates these things. They’re too small for men like him and you can’t have a decent fight without destroying something vital, like a control panel or an air tank. Submarines are a bad place for a brawl.

By the time he’s finished the thought, he’s at the bottom of the ladder. The only light in the room comes from the hatch, fifteen feet above them. He can’t even see the far bulkhead.

“Chuck!” he shouts.

“You’ve certainly caused a lot of problems,” Shaw replies instead.

Logan whirls towards the voice, claws up, but he can’t see anyone. He sniffs. The man is about eight feet away from him, concealed behind something metal. “If you’ve hurt him, I’m going to cause a lot more problems.”

Shaw laughs. “Are you going to promise that no one gets hurt if I hand him over?”

“You’re gonna die today, bub, doesn’t matter what you do.” 

“It’s a mistake to put all your cards on the table. You should know that. Don’t ever make your opponent feel like he’s got nothing left to lose.” Shaw is moving now. Logan can’t risk the possibility that he’s got a way to kill Chuck, though he suspects that if Shaw had a gun, he would have used it by now.

Logan moves with him. Broken glass crunches under his boot. His eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and he can see the shape of the bulkhead. Some of the instruments emit a pale glow. He can’t see, hear or smell anyone else, and he wonders if that teleporter took Chuck to another location.

“Chuck!” he shouts again.

“Logan!” It’s Chuck’s voice, muffled like he’s in another compartment.

That surprised Shaw, Logan can tell. Good for Chuck. Keep him guessing, kid.

Deciding that the situation is going to get more complicated the longer he waits, Logan lunges in the direction of Chuck’s voice. His claws are out, but the warnings about Shaw’s power make him cautious, and he turns his body to ram Shaw with his shoulder instead. His senses tell him that Shaw was standing by an open door. The force of Logan’s attack throws them through the control room door, and into a living room with couches, end tables and lamps, all still attached to the floor that has become a wall. Chuck isn’t in here either.

Logan has time to notice that much before Shaw reaches out and touches Logan’s face with a fingertip. The blast throws Logan into the bookshelf beneath his feet. The physical impact echoes through every cell in his body, leaving him gasping with the shock. Shaw’s energy manipulation is more potent than Logan expected; he multiplies the force. His mutation can’t heal this instantaneously, and Logan struggles and fails to stand up.

Shaw kicks a few books out of the way, walking over on the shelves and cabinets that are now the floor of the compartment. “Do you want to try that again? Stryker thinks your ability to heal is limitless. Shall we test that?”

Logan’s lungs are still heaving in search of oxygen. 

The unholy shriek of metal pierces his ears as the hull tears apart, flooding the control room behind him with sunshine and announcing Erik’s arrival.


	16. Submarine

_**Charles** _

Perception takes place in the brain, so while there is no one screaming outside of his head, Charles can hear the screaming that strangles every other thought in his head. It’s punishingly loud, but because the sound is not coming in through his ears, there won’t be any damage to his eardrums. The blinding light won’t damage his retinas either. Emma has triggered his senses into overload. His mouth isn’t full of the sourest lemon; his nose isn’t buried in raw sewage; there really isn’t sandpaper grinding into his skin over every bit of his body simultaneously. 

Yet Charles can’t ignore the sensory input. It isn’t enough to know it isn’t real. He can’t stop his brain from processing the information Emma is pouring into his mind and it has overwhelmed everything else. To the limited extent Charles had ever considered a telepathic attack, he had assumed it would be a power similar to his own and the battle would be for control of the other’s mind. Instead, Emma overwhelms him at the same time she seeks to block him into a reflection. Her own defenses push back against his incursions. She has incredible defensive abilities; her power seems to reflect back at Charles everything he throws at her.

He can’t shut down the sensory processing centers of his mind, but there is a form of meditation that blocks the outside world. It’s a counter-intuitive technique of accepting the distraction so fully that it ceases to be a distraction and becomes part of the background. 

Charles retains enough awareness of his body to blow out a long breath. On the inhale, he draws on the light, sound, taste, touch and smell, letting them flow unimpeded through his mind, waiting for them to dissipate into the acceptance and leave his consciousness free to focus past them. His attention partially untangles from the sensory perceptions, just enough flowing around the edges to not be completely blocked off anymore. The edges are enough for him to see Emma’s mind. 

Emma’s mind is glowing, throbbing with power, as if someone has pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor though the pitch of the engine is winding up too high and too fast. The intensity of her attack on Charles has overtaxed even the areas of her mind that control her breathing and heart rate; Charles hears them race and stutter. Interesting. Out of curiosity, Charles reaches out and tells her heart to slow down to something closer to normal, jerking back guiltily when it works. The implications of what he just did send him skittering away.

Charles tiptoes past the power blasting from her conscious mind, skates around her memories, and ducks into the structures of her brain without following conscious thought the way he usually does in a telepathic connection. He’s sneaking around in here, and as far as he can tell, Emma hasn’t noticed. Avoiding thought and rationality naturally guides him past her conscious mind, and he pauses at a web he recognizes from his incursion into Logan’s mind. Emma’s unconscious.

Most of his mind is occupied with the sensory overload Emma is still throwing at him. He’s never divided his attention like this before, and he isn’t sure what will happen. Still. There’s no sense in going back to be beaten with the deluded sensory processing areas of his mind.

Charles hooks his attention into the web between Emma’s conscious and unconscious mind, and then pushes his way through. 

* * *

 

_**Erik** _

Hauling a submarine out of the water and throwing it onto land is a bit like kicking an anthill. Everything that can move comes boiling up to see what’s going on. Erik runs with the crowd, only using his power to blow people out of his path if they are running too slowly. His suit has garnered a couple of second looks, but no one has challenged his right to be here. 

It isn’t until Erik has almost reached the submarine that someone official tries to stop them. The MPs have established a ragged perimeter, stopping the crowd only several yards from the submarine; someone is ordering cadets and midshipmen to return to their barracks and await further orders.

Pulling on the earth’s magnetic fields, Erik lifts himself above the mass of humanity. Someone with live ammunition fires at him. Erik’s attention is elsewhere; the bullet is closer than it should be before he stops it with a flick. He doesn’t have time to deflect other bullets, so he threads his power around all the loaded weapons he can sense and sends them spinning out into the ocean, leaving only the unloaded weapons in the hands of the humans. Just the edges of his attention notice that one of those loaded guns had adamantium bullets in it.

With the unholy shriek of tortured metal, Erik peels the double hull of the submarine open like an orange, from sail to stern, exposing the control room, the engine room with generators and batteries, and the weapons storage facility, which is empty. Shaw must have already recharged the compressed air tanks, because when Erik breaches the aft air tanks, there is an explosion with no debris. It sets off more panic among the assembled humans. Someone has a megaphone and shouts at him to come back to the ground. Erik lowers himself into the control room.

He didn’t peel the hulls off all the way to the bow; the forward half of the submarine is still intact. Through a door in the control room, he can see a living compartment. He catches a glimpse of curved couches, still bolted to the floor that has become a wall, rugs and lamps. The books have been knocked off the shelves, but everything else is still firmly attached to that steeply angled floor. 

Logan is collapsed on the shelving, Shaw standing over him. 

“Erik!” Shaw says congenially, smiling out from behind a helmet that covers his head from eyebrows to neckline, as if they are friends who happened to run into each other at a ball game. “Such a flamboyant entrance! I always knew you had style. Well done!”

And Erik just stands there, knocked off balance by Shaw’s confidence in the face of Erik’s intimidating display of power. All the powerlessness and fear from those years as a test subject flood back into his mind and paralyze him. This isn’t how the confrontation is supposed to go. Shaw should be cowering helplessly before him, begging for his life, and instead Erik’s mind fills with memories of the tests and pain he suffered at Shaw’s hands, and he wants nothing more than to run away and hide, but the images flooding his mind overwhelm him and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet.

He locks eyes with Logan, who is just as helpless as he is.

* * *

_**Charles  
** _

Charles learned enough from that misbegotten excursion into Logan’s unconscious to stay at the edges and hold the barriers around his own mind firm. Most of his mind is still overwhelmed with Emma’s continuing assault on the sensory perception areas of his brain, and so his concentration is already fragmented and struggling. What little bit he has pried away from the sensory illusions is balanced on the border where Emma’s conscious mind fades into the unconscious. He can’t sense much from here. 

Logan’s unconscious was full of the survival instinct and his need for Charles; it pulled him in. Emma’s unconscious is still keeping Charles out. It’s incredible, really, the strength of her shielding. Her diamond form is a shield; her telepathic powers manifest most strongly in shielding. There are compartments and barriers everywhere. It’s a maze in here.

With a sample size of only two telepaths, Charles considers the differences between their powers. All telepaths can communicate mentally, but interaction with another person’s mind is not limited to communication. Emma’s additional telepathic ability is centered on defensiveness. It seems counter-intuitive that someone so gifted in communication would want to build such strong barriers. Charles’ additional telepathic ability is centered on control. He pauses a moment, wondering if he should explore what that says about him and his deepest motives, and then decides that is certainly not necessary to ponder at this moment.

Defensiveness is based on fear in all its many forms. Charles remembers when his first instinct would have been to soothe Emma, and reassure her that he means her no harm. But friendliness and appeasement are no longer Charles’ default approach. He wants her to fear him and never again dare to attack him or his team.

There is a shift in Emma’s power. Some of her concentration has focused elsewhere. Unbidden, Charles hitches a ride on the thought and finds Emma reaching out to another mind and triggering fears. Just a brush, just enough to realize she’s raking up memories in the mind of someone very familiar to Charles. It’s enough to distract her from the full scale continuing assault on Charles’ senses. He can hear himself think again.

With part of his concentration released from the sensory processing centers of his brain, and the other part still floating in the intense fear that characterizes Emma’s unconscious mind, Charles now has enough concentration to attack. 

Deliberately, cruelly, and effectively, Charles sets about overloading Emma’s fears.

* * *

_**Erik  
** _

Sweat streaks Erik’s forehead, his chin trembles and his fists are so tightly clenched that his fingernails are leaving red crescents in his palms.

Shaw takes a step closer to him, with a kind and curious look, head cocked in that medieval helmet. Erik recognizes that look. The puzzlement dehumanizes him, as if Shaw is the one who makes sense and Erik is the one who is confused. It’s hard to hold on to his sense of reality when Shaw is there to twist it with words. “May I ask you something? Why are you on their side?” The tone is conversational, and Erik immediately doubts everything he’s done since he escaped from Shaw. Why isn’t he on Shaw’s side?

 “Why fight for a doomed race who will hunt us down as soon as they realize their reign is coming to an end?” Shaw asks.

Yes, exactly, that is exactly the point he is always making to Charles. Charles is wrong and Shaw is right. Erik should turn on Charles and become one of Shaw’s followers instead. After all, they share the same goals. 

Wait.

The fear in his mind steals Erik’s ability to form a logical response, and so he climbs to his feet and lashes out, striking Shaw in the head.

Shaw absorbs the force of the blow with nothing more than a slight shake of his head that doesn’t even dislodge that kind and quizzical smile.

Erik steps back, but he’s walking on a bookshelf and his foot slips and he staggers. When he reaches out a hand to steady himself, Shaw takes it, and the force reverberates down his arm and into his head. Erik wraps both arms around his head, trying to still the force of Shaw’s blast.

“I’m sorry for what happened in the camps. I truly am.”

Erik believes him. Shaw only did what he had to do. Erik has done some terrible things too, but he had to do them. It’s possible to do something you know is wrong, and still hope that the person you wronged will understand why you had to do it. Shaw isn’t even upset that Erik destroyed his submarine. It would be unfair if Erik continued to hold Shaw’s past actions against him. Wouldn’t it?

“Everything I did, I did for you,” Shaw assures him. “To unlock your power, to make you embrace it.”

Erik’s head doesn’t feel like it’s on the brink of an explosion anymore, so he lowers his arms. Still wobbling, Erik finds he is nodding at Shaw’s words. They are true. Shaw did unlock his power. He brought him to use it at long last. If his methods were a bit extreme, well, would anything else have worked? All that anger and rage were necessary, or he wouldn’t be able to use this exquisite and impressive power. 

Rage. He had to feel rage in order to unlock his power. All the atrocities Shaw committed were necessary for his own development. This is true. But it isn’t all the truth.

“No,” Erik is surprised to realize he has spoken aloud. “Serenity would have worked just as well.”

* * *

_**Logan  
** _

When Shaw blows Erik off his feet, Logan rolls out of the way. His body has recovered, and he stands up. Erik and Shaw are focused on each other, ignoring Logan. Logan is on the forward end of the living compartment now, away from the control room. He heard Charles’ voice coming from this direction, muffled. There is a painting on the forward wall, between two nooks with recessed lighting that is somehow still alight, the statuary bolted down and stationary despite the rest of the chaos in the room.

There is nothing that looks like a door, but that doesn’t mean anything. While Erik and Shaw hash out their issues, Logan taps on the wall below the painting. Hollow. The forward compartments of a sub would have the galley and sleeping quarters sandwiched between the control room and the forward missile tubes. There’s plenty of room here for another compartment, if only he can find the mechanism to open it.

His tapping has gotten someone’s attention. Logan presses his ear against the wall below the painting and hears Chuck’s voice. Odd. The voice is Chuck’s voice, but what he’s yelling doesn’t sound at all like things Chuck would say.

“What the hell is taking you so long? This is really freaky, Logan! There’s someone else in here! What did you say Emma Frost looked like? Is she, like, all blonde and frosty and sexy? Why would anyone wear a skimpy dress like that on a mission to take over the world? I mean, flashing your panties isn’t exactly a power move. Weird, right? She’s not doing so great. I bet that’s Charles’ fault.”

Logan figures out what has happened about the same time he finds and breaks the door’s control panel. The door parts horizontally in the middle; half rolls up into the ceiling while the other half disappears down into the floor.

Chuck gives him a delighted grin, and then morphs back into Raven. “Hi, Logan!”

“Where’s Chuck?”

Raven points. Chuck has landed in the corner of a room covered in mirrors in the skewed submarine. The glass around him has cracked. Emma Frost is here too, all curled in on herself, hands pulling that perfectly coiffed hair into a real mess. While Logan watches, she shimmers into diamond. Well, damn, that’s quite a trick. 

Logan steps over Emma to reach Chuck. He’s moaning when Logan crouches down next to him, but the sounds aren’t the same as when he was being attacked telepathically. This sounds like he’s reacting to his own body and events around him. He opens his eyes and blinks, and there is recognition in his eyes. Logan throws a glance over his shoulder, warily watching the confrontation between Erik and Shaw, which has not yet gone to hell. Deciding he has a few seconds, he turns and kneels down next to Chuck, brushing his fingertips over his temple.

“You still here?”

_ Yes. _

“Do what you gotta do, kid,” Logan says, and presses his entire hand over Chuck’s head, moving his body to shield Chuck in case Erik starts throwing stuff around. Remembering how badly Shaw’s attack on his mind affected him when he was kidnapped, Logan assumes that Chuck is going to be disoriented and rattled for a bit longer. “They shoot you up with anything?”

“They tried,” Raven answers. “And I was going to punch him out, but then the sub turned sideways and Shaw dropped the syringe. That was Erik, right?”

In response, Logan jerks his head towards the open door, where the discussion has now gone to hell, and Erik is ripping the room apart.

“Huh,” Raven says, watching the destruction through the door. “Hey, this stuff on the walls is that stuff they put in the helmet, right? It makes it so Charles can’t use his telepathy, right?”

Raven doesn’t wait for an answer, but picks up Emma and throws the diamond woman up and into the wall, then steps out of the way as she falls, shattering the room’s reflective coating. Raven turns to give Logan a triumphant grin.

Erik’s power surge in the next room causes an explosion with no shrapnel. If Logan had to guess, he’d say Erik just breached another compressed air tank.

It’s a good thing Logan arrived in time to protect Chuck from his team. 

* * *

_**Erik  
** _

“Not with you, Erik, you aren’t the type for serenity,” Shaw assures him. “Who is trying to make you into something you’re not? You’re an explosion, a force of nature. What does a man as powerful as you are need with something as useless as serenity?”

Shaw is right. As always, he is right. But Erik no longer wants him to be right. Desperate for something to do to reassert himself and his power, Erik rips the metal out of the wall behind the painted wallboard.

With an approving smile at the destruction, Shaw says, “You’ve come a long way from bending gates. I’m so proud of you.”

The approval turns Erik’s destruction from a fight into a demonstration for a proud teacher. Increasingly desperate to upset Shaw’s composure, Erik reaches out and starts indiscriminately yanking on every bit of metal he can find. Beams, tubing, plating, ductwork and pipes go flying through the compartment.

“You’re just starting to scratch the surface. Think how much further we could go.” Shaw walks a few steps towards Erik, with Erik straining to push him away the way he can push anyone away. The helmet distorts his face. Erik didn’t think his magnetic manipulation would be affected by Shaw’s power, but Shaw seems to be pushing back at him. “Together, Erik.”

There is only one I-beam left between himself and Shaw. Erik forces it away from him, to press against Shaw, but when Shaw puts his hand on it, Erik feels the power pressing back against him instead. He has no way to fight Shaw. Anything he throws at him will get thrown back. He’s helpless again, and his mind is still pouring out memories of the last time he was helpless before Shaw. 

Shaw leans over the metal barrier. “I don’t want to hurt you, Erik. I never did. I want to help you. This is our time. Our age. We are the future of the human race. You and me, son.”

Son. 

Shaw keeps trying to tell him who he is, and Erik was more than halfway to believing him. Shaw erred when he reminded Erik of who he isn’t. He has never been, and will never be, Shaw’s son. His mind snaps, and every bit of the fear and the memories vanishes into the hot explosion of Erik’s fury. Erik knows what will happen if that rage explodes in a way that Shaw can use, and he won’t waste this chance to destroy Shaw. Serenity pours down over the rage, steaming off the impulsiveness into cold revenge. 

This is Erik’s point between rage and serenity.

“This world could be ours,” Shaw assures him.

“Everything you did made me stronger; made me the weapon I am today. It’s the truth. I’ve known that all along,” Erik acknowledges. 

Shaw smiles as Erik continues, “You are my creator.”

Erik presses back on the metal beam, slowly moving it closer to Shaw, until Shaw has to take a step back. The smile doesn’t falter.

_ Erik. _

_ Hello, Charles. _

_ His helmet blocks my telepathy. _

Erik is developing a real hatred for helmets. He can’t pull on it directly though, or Shaw can manipulate his own power to push back at him.

“I agree with every word you said,” Erik says calmly, snaking a torn cable up behind Shaw, magnetizing the leads, and yanking the helmet off from behind. “Now, Charles!”

Shaw freezes in place, body half-turned and hand outstretched towards the helmet floating above him.

“Unfortunately,” Erik continues to Shaw, “you killed my mother.” He pulls his coin out of his pocket and holds it up. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to move the coin.” He reaches up and takes the helmet. 

_ Erik! No! _

Erik doesn’t look at Charles when he shoves Shaw’s helmet onto his own head. “One.”

The coin floats through the air.

“Two.” The coin’s edge brushes against Shaw’s forehead.

Erik’s ears ring with the force of the blow to his head, and he falls to his hands and knees in the rubble of the destroyed compartment.

“You know what happens if you shove that coin through his head while he’s linked to Charles’ mind? You want to risk doing that to Charles? I’ll kill you myself, first!” Raven shouts, and before Erik has figured out how to defend himself without hurting Raven, she’s kicked him in the helmet again. This metal has a peculiar resonance that seems to magnify the force of the blow. Erik yanks it off his head before Raven can kick him again.

A Banshee shriek from overhead is the only warning they have before a body drops into the exposed control room, and then Armando is clambering to his feet and pointing towards the stern. “That guy! That teleporter! He brought a nuclear reactor!”

There is a pop, a puff of red smoke, and then the teleporter is in the compartment with them. “Boss!” Seeing Shaw immobilized, his gaze darts wildly around to the rest of them. “Can any of you reattach the coolant system? It fractured off!”

“Dude! Teleport the reactor to the bottom of the ocean!” Raven shouts at him.

“No! It could explode any second now!” The red man disappears.

“Bad guys don’t do the self-sacrifice thing, Raven,” Logan explains.

The red man reappears, drops nearly a ton of complex piping and turbine housing into the control room on top of Armando, and then disappears again.

“Professor! How much do you know about nuclear reactors?” Armando demands at the top of his lungs, shaking off the body shielding that kept him from being crushed by the coolant system. 

Erik looks over. Charles is still on his knees, both hands at his temples. He can only shake his head at Armando’s question, face twisted with the mental effort of holding onto Shaw.

“Code red. I repeat, we have a code red. Initiate emergency evacuation protocol.” The words have the tinny blare of a megaphone.

Erik cranes his head to look through the doorway into the exposed control room next to the living compartment. The edges of the submarine are ringed with Naval personnel, all with guns pointed at them. Unloaded guns, of course, but it makes a nice show for everyone else. If they want to evacuate, that’s fine with Erik. At least they’re smart enough not to get involved.

Sean lands in the control room, banking his glide to avoid the Naval personnel. “Hank’s coming, but all these guys are in his way!” Sean points at the guards.

“How does anyone get in Hank’s way? I mean, seriously, man, it’s Beast!” Raven says.

Sean shrugs. “I saw him bust through the perimeter, but he’s a little nervous about the guns.”

“No one’s weapons are loaded,” Erik says. “I threw every loaded weapon into the ocean before I opened the sub.” Erik nods in the direction of their armed guard. “They’re bluffing.”

“I’ll go tell him!” Sean scrambles up the ladder, elbowing uniformed personnel out of his way, and launches himself with a scream.

“By the way,” Erik says to Logan, “one of those guns had adamantium bullets.”

“No shit?” Logan asks.

“Dudes! Nuclear reactor! Can we focus?!” Armando shouts.

“It takes some time to build to critical heat,” Charles says calmly. “Nuclear reactors don’t explode like bombs in any event; they release radiation when the coolant system fails to cool the fuel rods effectively.”

Erik’s eyes find Shaw, who is an unmoving heap on the ground.

“I put him to sleep. Shall we go prevent a nuclear incident?” 

You would think the man was on a Sunday stroll, except for the way he has to clamber over the wreckage.

_ Charles? _

Charles’ mind is closed to him.

Erik’s eyes dart back to Shaw’s sleeping form, but there’s no time to finish it now. 

Once Erik is through the door into the control room, Erik lifts his hands and levitates himself and Charles over the mass of twisted tubing left by the teleporter, and lands lightly on the exposed edges of the torpedo room, where Shaw has built a foundation for a nuclear reactor. The electric diesel engine is in the next compartment, gone silent and still since Erik pulled the submarine out of the water. The huge nuclear containment structure sits askew in the weapons compartment, steaming water pooling underneath it where the secondary cooling system has been severed. 

The Navy personnel on hand are mostly police and leadership types. Useless. Raising himself back into the air, Erik sees the crowds of recruits being evacuated in orderly fashion. The blue and yellow suits catch his eye. It is Alex, elbowing his way through the crowds, with Moira following in his wake. He snatches them up, dumping Alex on the ground next to the submarine and levitating Moira to a platform next to them that he forms from the hull. Further out, there are men running towards them, wearing radiation suits and carrying equipment. They come to a halt in the face of the crowds of soldiers headed the other direction. Reaching out with his power, Erik lifts the nuclear team over the evacuating seamen. 

* * *

_**Armando** _

Erik and Charles float away, leaving Armando with Logan, Raven, an unconscious man, and a woman-shaped diamond that fades back into a blonde woman right before his eyes. Raven kicks her in the shin, then leaves her to join Armando and Logan in the destroyed living room. 

“Report,” Logan orders him.

Armando scrapes up his week of military-style training under Logan and sifts some of the panic out of his mind. Logan has taken his elbow and is steering him away from the unconscious man and woman into the control room, where the ruined coolant system blocks their access to the ladder. He figures Logan already noticed that Erik yanked the submarine out of the ocean, so he skips that part.

“Banshee and I glided off that big training tower when it collapsed under us. It’s flooding the base. I saw that whoosh of red smoke coming from the submarine, and then Banshee dropped me. That’s all.”

“Is that radioactive?” Raven asked, pointing at the coolant system. She’s blue.

“Stay where you are!” someone orders them through a megaphone.

Armando looks up at the Navy cops ringing the open maw of the control room. He also sees Hank hauling himself up right behind the Navy cop. It makes a nice image when the cop drops his megaphone at Hank’s growl.

With a screech of metal bending under the force of its own weight, the coolant system levitates out of the control room, holding steady in the air above them while the pipes and ductwork start to smooth out into something resembling useful equipment.

“Should we get out from under this thing? You know, in case Erik drops something?” Raven suggests.

“Beast! Get Raven out of here!” Logan shouts. 

Hank dodges between a couple of unprotesting cops and lands lightly on his feet on the navigation panel. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Raven protests.

“Follow orders, Raven,” Logan says.

There’s enough authority in his voice that Raven’s only protest is a scowl. Then she steps on Hank’s outstretched hand and he throws her up to catch the edge of the torn control room and catapult herself into a flip, and she disappears. Faint shouts of surprise announce her arrival down among the military personnel.

“Go,” Logan orders Hank. “Keep Alex away from here and don’t let them arrest Raven. Talk science at someone until they send someone to fix that reactor and otherwise make them leave us alone. Whatever you gotta do.”

Hank points behind and above Logan. “I think Erik found your repair team. I’ll do what I can.”

Armando turns to see four men in radiation suits on platforms that Erik has apparently just created out of destroyed pieces of the submarine’s hull.

Hank jumps straight up, catches the edge of the control room and hauls himself up and out, the Navy cops backing away as quickly as they can. One falls, thumping down the outside of the submarine all the way to the ground.

“Efficient evacuation technique,” Logan comments, then he asks Armando, “How much radiation exposure can you handle?”

“As much as I need to,” Armando replies.

“Let’s go,” Logan says, climbing the ladder. 

Armando follows him.

* * *

_**Commander Swann  
** _

Commander Swann has an ordinary toolkit in one hand, and three volumes of instructions under his other arm. The radiation containment suit is a clumsy mass of thick fabric and a noisy breathing apparatus.The men behind him are carrying heavier equipment, including foam extinguishers which they have been testing for their capacity to contain, or at least slow down, radiation leakage from a melting core. Or they intend to test it; it’s still theory at this point.

The crisis has developed so quickly that they don’t have an escort. They’re on their way from the R&D facility to the flying submarine, and their way is soon blocked by recruits evacuating in the opposite direction. Another thing these radiation suits lack is an adequate speaker system. Yelling at people to get out of his way disappears between his mouth and the exterior of his suit.

The team slows to a stop. Commander Swann finds a gap in the exodus, and leads his team through it. The reason no one was coming from this direction is the river flowing through the center of the base. Commander Swann turns to see where it’s coming from, and can’t see anything. The SETT should be right there, but it’s missing and there’s a river running through the middle of the base. The water is no more than knee high. This is their best path to the grounded submarine, which is where Swann assumes they’ll find the missing reactor. In the illogic that has characterized the day, the only consistency Swann asks for is that all the bizarre events be located in the same place.

In four more steps, his legs are suddenly churning at nothing and the ground falls away beneath him. The toolkit in his hand hums, and he can hear the muffled shouts of his response team behind him. If he had a hand free, he would cross himself, and he makes a mental note to apologize to Yancy for not believing the story about the flying submarine. 

Swann’s feet come to rest on a metal platform that he watched form itself out of pieces of the hull, anchored to the edge of a decimated submarine, peeled open like a dissection. The other three members of his team land beside him in a stream of cursing.

“Good afternoon, Commander Swann,” a young man politely greets him. Three of the people standing on convenient metal platforms around the torpedo room of this submarine are in blue and yellow suits, though if that’s supposed to protect them from radiation, they’ve defeated the barrier by not wearing helmets. The polite young man has dark brown hair that is most definitely not a regulation military haircut. Swann’s eyes slide past him, looking for someone in authority.

“Commander Swann,” a woman says crisply, and flashes a badge at him. She looks like the proverbial drowned rat. “Agent MacTaggert, CIA. Base Commander Archambault would have briefed you on our arrival.”

CIA. A woman? Well, that’s hardly the strangest thing to happen today.

“What do you need to neutralize the threat of a nuclear incident?” Agent MacTaggert asks him, as if she’s got the resources to provide him with anything.

Then again, she isn’t fazed by flying submarines or flying people. Maybe here in Oz, a dripping wet woman can fix nuclear reactors that disappear in a puff of smoke and reappear in submarines that can fly. Besides, Commander Swann can’t deny that he’s seen impossible things happen before. He just hadn’t realized there were more people like his brother.

Commander Swann points at the 800 ton nuclear containment structure lying askew in the torpedo room. “I need that structure rotated to expose the secondary coolant system junctures, and then I need that coolant system,” here Commander Swann points into the adjacent control room where the coolant system lies in a jumbled mass of tubes, “reattached and refilled with water.” The steam generator and condenser are also missing, but if he can get the secondary coolant system up and running, that will buy them several days to get the non-essential components reconfigured.

“We’re on it,” Agent MacTaggert replies. “Magneto?”

The tall, severe-looking man, who apparently answers to Magneto, simply reaches out and turns his hand, and the entire containment structure rotates as lightly as if it’s made of styrofoam. 

As the secondary coolant system junctures come into view, Swann’s team spreads out, two of them with Geiger counters. Through the suit’s audio, Swann can hear the clicks measuring the radiation. Even a properly functioning nuclear reactor emits some gamma rays and x-rays, which are usually trapped behind shielding built into the structure around the reactor itself. That shielding is missing out here, meaning the denizens of Oz are being exposed to radiation. In addition to the ordinary radioactive emissions, they have several minutes, at most, before the core melts, releasing a radiation cloud.

“Agent MacTaggert, take your people and evacuate the area,” Swann orders.

“I thought you needed help moving the coolant system,” Magneto replies. 

The containment structure stops rotating, and settles into a stable area. Swann could swear that the back end of the torpedo room has been reshaped to brace the containment structure. Actually, he may as well admit that the Wizard of Oz here just made that happen.

“Leave me the equipment you’re using, and we’ll take it from here,” Swann replies, testing his hypothesis.

“I am the equipment you’re using,” Magneto replies. “This part next?” Magneto reaches out with a hand, and the coolant tubing lifts out of the control room.

“It’s twisted all to hell. We can’t use that,” Captain Yancy exclaims.

“I can straighten it out,” Magneto says. His fingers flick and the tubing shifts.

“Other way!” Swann shouts.

“Commander, if you would be so good as to visualize the proper configuration of the coolant system, I can pass the diagram on to my colleague,” says the polite young man. He’s got two fingers pressed to his temple.

“What?”

“Think about what it should look like,” the young man instructs him. “Magneto, I’ll pass you the image.”

Oz. That’s right; he’s in Oz. Swann drops the other two manuals and clumsily turns pages in search of a diagram of the secondary coolant system. The polite young man is apparently the Man Behind the Curtain, who gives orders to the Wizard, and he’s the Scarecrow who has to be smart enough to figure out what he wants.

“Very good, and my name is Professor X.”

The Man Behind the Curtain is Professor X. Fine.

“Close enough,” Professor X replies, with half a smile, like this is a cocktail party and he’s said something amusing.

Fuck it and damn, the floating coolant system is untwisting and the broken pipe is soldering itself back together, exactly like the diagram in the instruction manual.

“If I start the turbines, will that help pull off the heat?” Magneto asks.

“The turbines pump the water. We’ve got to restart the turbines, but until we’ve got water, it isn’t going to do much good to cool the core,” Swann tells him.

“Bloody hell!” Yancy exclaims as the turbines rev and then settle into their standard revolutions. “What fuel is it using?”

“I’m turning them,” Magneto answers.

Of course he is. Flying monkeys and the Wicked Witch of the West are likely on the horizon right now. Damn, or big fuzzy blue monsters. He doesn’t recall those from Oz.

“How are you going to pressurize the water?” the Blue Cowardly Lion asks as he climbs onto the platform.

Swann has just a moment to notice the water pressurizer is nowhere in sight.

“What’s our radiation exposure?” Agent MacTaggert asks.

Yancy swings his Geiger counter over the reactor and listens to the clicks. “Unshielded personnel will reach unsafe levels in about five minutes. I recommend all non-essential personnel evacuate now.”

“That’s you, Moira,” Magneto says.

Agent MacTaggert opens her mouth to object.

“We’ll take it from here, Agent MacTaggert, don’t put yourself in danger,” Swann jumps in. Damned if he’ll see a woman expose herself to radiation.

“Hand off the authority to me and get yourself out of the danger zone.” There’s a big man wearing a plaid flannel shirt hauling himself up over the lip of the platform. His hair is shaggy, but his salute is regulation military. “Commander, I’m Captain Howlett, United States Army Special Forces.”

Finally, another military man, even if he is wearing plaid flannel. 

“And this is Darwin, a CIA operative who is cleared for radiation exposure.”

A black man. And what the hell does it mean to be cleared for radiation exposure? Commander Swann does a double take. Even through the curved faceplate, he can see that there is something very wrong with that man’s skin; it’s all crusted over.

“Moira, get out of here or I’ll carry you down myself. Don’t let Banshee come back. Keep Mystique out of the pokey and get Beast to secure our aircraft,” Howlett orders her. 

“We’ll discuss this insubordination later, Logan,” Agent MacTaggert says.

“Sure, chew me out all you want,” Captain Howlett agrees, “now go.”

Dorothy slides down the hull of the submarine. The Blue Cowardly Lion goes with her.

“Now that the Tin Man is here, we’re all set. Commander, if you would inspect the coolant system,” Professor X suggests, fingers to his temple and eyes closed.

Tin Man? He doesn’t see anyone made of metal.

The coolant system obligingly floats in front of him, rotating slowly. All Swann has to do is notice something is not quite right, and it fixes itself. He could get used to this sort of construction technique.

“And now, think of the attachment procedure,” Professor X continues.

That’s going to be a nightmare. The tubing has been twisted off into ragged ends. They’ll have to cut it back, and then collar and solder the joins. Swann has no sooner thought through the difficulty when it becomes unnecessary. First one join, and then another, are woven back together so perfectly there isn’t even a seam on the tubing.

“Adequate?” Magneto asks.

“Damn,” Yancy exclaims. “I’m out of a job.”

“Magneto, can you see through to the reactor core and primary coolant loop? I’d like to show Commander Swann and see if there are any issues,” Professor X says. “Commander, if you would be so good as to evaluate the images I’m sending you.”

Suddenly, Swann’s head is full of an up-close visual of the interior of the containment structure, but it doesn’t look like any diagram or structure he’s ever seen. Instead, the entire thing is defined by the metal in the structure. He can see the weave of the copper tubing, the iron shielding, the steel in the rivets. The beauty of the uranium takes his breath away; it may be nothing more than dull gray cylinders to the naked eye, but he’s never been able to see radiation before. Anything that isn’t metal is visible only as shadows against the metal.

“Is it structurally sound, Commander? Any repairs necessary?” Professor X asks.

“Fine, sure, it’s fine,” Swann replies. Wait, would he be able to see any steam leaking from the primary coolant loop?

“Do you sense any heat leaks, Magneto?” Professor X asks.

“Not from steam. The core is heating up though. I can feel the heat in the metal.”

“That’s because the secondary coolant system is no longer cooling the primary coolant system,” Swann explains to the Wizard of Oz.

“What’s next?”

“We get the secondary coolant system filled and pressurized,” Swann says, and looks around, halfway expecting a water faucet to appear in mid-air. Why not?

“Professor, you can do all this from that tent,” Magneto points to where the emergency personnel have set up a decontamination tent. “Go.”

“You’ve been up here as long as I have,” Professor X replies, lifting his chin defiantly.

Swann looks at Captain Howlett. “Give an order.”

Captain Howlett points at the two technicians on Commander Swann’s team. “You two! Strip down and give your suits to those guys. Then get out of here.”

That’s not exactly what Swann meant, but at his nod, his technicians turn over their radiation suits and evacuate the platform while Yancy helps Magneto and Professor X with the fastenings and helmet.

Swann begrudges every second of delay. What he hadn’t said is that without the secondary coolant system, the primary coolant system can’t draw off enough heat from the reactor core itself. If the heat in the reactor core increases enough, it could boil the water in the primary coolant system and cause explosions that could crack the containment structure, exposing the uranium fuel rods to the open air and setting off a variety of superheated chemical reactions. At the very least, everyone within the blast radius will be killed, and the radiation cloud would cause lifelong health problems for anyone who survives.

He’s staring down the Wizard and the Man Behind the Curtain, willing them to hurry. Professor X meets his eyes through the faceplate, and Swann has the uncanny feeling that at least one person from Oz knows exactly what’s at stake.

* * *

_**Hank  
** _

Down on the ground, the area next to the submarine is filling up with men in radiation suits. The decontamination tent is only a few yards away, and Hank walks Moira over with a light hand on her arm, curling his lip in a growl when the MPs don’t put up their weapons fast enough. Just inside the tent, Raven, Alex and Sean are arguing with several MPs. Or they’re trying to argue; the MPs aren’t saying anything.

A man with a red cross armband on his uniform gives Hank a terrified look even as he guides Moira into a curtained area and asks her if she feels nauseated or fatigued. No one dares tell Beast what to do or where to stand. He glances over when Alex hollers at him to get them out of here, and gives a quick shake of his head. They’re safer here, and there’s nothing they could do to help.

He turns to go. 

“Damn you!” Raven yells at him, and then she transforms into a Navy ensign and elbows her way past the MPs waving their unloaded weapons at her.

Hank doesn’t have time to get yelled at. He ducks out of the decontamination tent in time to see two men come sliding down from the platform without their radiation suits. He glances up. Magneto and Professor X are putting the radiation suits on. Before the two men can get lost in the crowd, Hank strides up and grabs each of them by an arm. “How are we going to pressurize the water? You’ve got a pressurizer somewhere, don’t you? Let’s go.”

For an instant, Hank worries that they’re going to freak out and not do anything useful, and then military discipline takes over. “We’ve got all the necessary equipment in the R&D facility.”

“I’ll help with equipment retrieval and assembly.” He turns to Raven. “Can you get a water source identified and ready to go? We’ve got to fill the secondary coolant system to cool the reactor core and prevent a meltdown. We’re going to be filling it up there.” Hank points up at the platform.

Ensign Raven salutes, and shimmers again. 

Hank turns back to the R&D technicians before he can see what form Raven chooses. “Let’s go.”

He turns. There is a solid mass of people in his way. Hank roars. Suddenly, there is a clear way through the crowd. 

Huh, maybe there are times to be mutant and proud. 

* * *

_**Raven  
** _

Finally! She’s got something constructive to do. Water. They’re next to a flooded base right next to the ocean. How hard can it be to get water?

When she first hit the ground, a man with a burn scar obscuring the left side of his mouth gave the order to arrest them. Hank dodged the arrest to climb back up the sub, but Raven got corralled by MPs and decided to momentarily cooperate, since she was apparently just tagging along on this whole adventure and there was no pressing reason besides her own irritation to kick Navy personnel in the head. Besides, she could see that they had Alex in custody, and he was waving at her.

They’ve been in custody long enough. At her signal, Alex figures out what she wants and causes enough of a distraction that neither MP is looking at her. Raven morphs into the man with the scarred face and calls out, “soldier!”

The two MPs give her very gratifying salutes.

“I’ll take custody of those two men,” she says with a nod at Alex and Sean.

That was easy.

* * *

_**Armando  
** _

Armando doesn’t know if his mutation has given him the ability to detect radiation without a Geiger counter, or if anyone without a radiation suit could feel the radiation against his skin as a faint buzz, and a taste in his mouth like he’s been licking aluminum foil. There’s a crust over his skin, and something has formed over his nose and eyes. Logan has gone over to talk to the Commander in the radiation suit.

“Magneto! Beast and the technicians are going to fetch the water pressurizer!” Professor X calls out.

Commander Swann hears that and breaks off the conversation with Logan.

“Do you see that intake valve? That’s where the pressurizer attaches,” Commander Swann says, pointing at a contraption attached to the secondary coolant system.

“It has ceramic components,” Erik replies.

“Yes, of course it does,” Swann says.

“I can’t manipulate ceramics,” Erik tells him.

“I can,” Armando offers.

“That’s my job, actually,” the other military guy says.

“I can assist. You’re going to need help, right? Logan chased off your technicians,” Armando points out. He’s got to do something heroic enough that they’ll think twice about arresting him, even if he did attack Captain Kelmsley.

“Yancy is wearing proper gear. It’s not safe for you,” Swann insists.

“I’m shielded from radiation better than you are,” Armando answers. Then again, heroics might not matter. Black guys have been fighting and dying for their country since the Revolutionary War, and they still can’t even use the same drinking fountains as the white guys.

Before it can turn into an argument, Charles, who has had his hand to his temple this whole time, informs them that Beast and the others are on their way.

Erik reaches out and floats the three of them and the equipment they’re hauling up to the platform.

Rather than go through the discussion again, Armando jumps lightly down onto the nuclear containment structure. A second later, Yancy lands next to him. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Armando replies.

“You get a medal when this is all over,” Yancy says.

“Either that or a jail cell,” Armando says under his breath as the pressurizer floats down next to them and Yancy hands him a wrench.

* * *

_**Raven** _

Sure, there’s tons of water all over this base, but the flood crest from the destroyed SETT has already dissipated.

“You did that, didn’t you?” Raven accuses Alex.

Alex shrugs. “It’s hardly the worst thing to happen today.” He sounds kind of smug about that.

Raven’s name tag reads “Milner” and people salute when they see her. She takes advantage of that to interrupt someone who seems to mostly just be standing around and talking to ask about water sources. “How are they going to refill that tower that mysteriously got destroyed?” Raven asks, with an elbow to Alex’s ribs.

“Oh, it’s not mysterious sir, a bomb went off at depth,” Ensign Drucker replies.

“That’s not at all mysterious to you, huh?” Raven asks. “Never mind.” They don’t have time to deal with Ensign Drucker’s strange theories. “Where’s the next best source of water?”

“The water tower got pulled over when the SETT fell,” Ensign Drucker says.

“We need a whole lot of water, really fast,” Raven says impatiently. “I need a brilliant idea and you’re coming up with it.”

Raven discovers that ordering someone to be brilliant is all fine and good, but that doesn’t guarantee a result.

They end up with a bucket brigade.

* * *

_**Erik  
** _

Once the pressurizer is operating and the secondary coolant system is refilled with water, Commander Swann orders Logan to order Erik and Charles to the decontamination tent.

Erik would have argued, but Logan doesn’t leave him enough time. “Outta here, boys,” he says, grabbing each of them by the bicep and then jumping from the platform. Erik catches them on the way down to slow their descent, and Logan grins at him like he planned it that way. He probably did, actually. 

Now that they’ve prevented a nuclear disaster, his focus is on Shaw, and the fear that he woke up and escaped while Erik’s attention was elsewhere. It wouldn’t exactly be Charles’ fault if that happened, but if it did, he’ll never know for sure if Charles allowed Shaw to escape or if he really was too distracted to maintain Shaw’s little nap. Erik’s tension is funneling into an anticipatory anger that Charles may have taken advantage of the situation to throw a wrench in Erik’s plans for revenge in a way that forestalls Erik’s accusations. 

The military-issue radiation suits they’re wearing don’t mark them for special treatment, and Erik gets pulled into a decontamination room and told to strip down without anyone realizing he isn’t Navy. Charles is taken to another room, and Erik’s mental call to him goes unanswered. Charles has been too precise through this whole ordeal. The only sense he’s had of Charles in his head since he immobilized Shaw were those reactor diagrams passed on from Commander Swann. They came clean and neat, with none of the personal warmth he usually feels when Charles links minds with him. Erik can think of only one reason for Charles to keep so much mental distance.

Charles can be an arrogant little shit when he thinks he’s right, and if he’s done what Erik is afraid he’s done, Erik is going to let him have it with both barrels and no mercy.

Erik is impatient with the whole decontamination procedure, which isn’t helped much when the medic realizes Erik is CIA instead of military and wants him to fill out extra paperwork before he’ll give him an iodine tablet. Erik shoves the clipboard back into the medic’s hand, snatches the iodine tablet from the other hand, and swallows it on his way out of the curtained room, dressed in a canvas Navy jumpsuit with a belt cinched at the waist. Charles’ voice, coming from the neighboring curtain cubicle, is both quiet and strained. Erik doesn’t stop to check on him.

He hears Moira yelling at someone that they are damn well not going to arrest Armando as soon as he finishes saving them all from a nuclear meltdown, and he sidesteps that conversation, ducking behind another curtain and deeper into the tent. There are fewer people back here, just a couple of men unloading crates off a jeep.

Looking around, Erik finds another man with a medic armband who is telling soldiers where to put the crates. “I’m looking for two people who would have been evacuated from the submarine.”

“Everyone’s up front,” the medic replies.

“These two were unconscious - a man and a woman,” Erik goes on.

“Name and rank?” the medic asks him.

“I’m CIA, and they were civilians,” Erik replies. “Where are they?”

“The woman is in a coma. She’s been evacuated to Natchaug Hospital.”

“And the man?” Erik presses.

“Dead on arrival.”

“Dead on arrival?” Erik echoes, everything in his chest clenching as his mind goes loose and disjointed.

“Yeah, not a mark on him though. It must have been a heart attack or something.”

“Or something,” Erik echoes again, gone completely numb with shock. He turns away from the medic, hand involuntarily going up to cover his mouth as he makes his way out of the tent. He tries to take a deep breath, but there isn’t enough room in his lungs.

Through all those lonely years, Erik has built up the fantasy of Shaw’s death as both comfort and motivation - picturing Shaw’s fear, his humiliation, even imagined him begging for his life. Erik planned to smile at him at that point, so the last thing Shaw saw before he died was his own defeat mirrored in Erik’s victory. The promise of Shaw helpless before Erik was sweet with hatred.

Instead, Shaw died quickly and mercifully. Vengeance may never have been a path to peace, but Erik had expected closure. 

All of his anger against Shaw is too potent to evaporate; instead it changes course and lands on the person who stole Erik’s quest. 

Charles. 

 


	17. Pause

The bustle and furor is clustered around the midsection and stern of the submarine. There is hardly anyone near the bow, which Erik left intact. When Charles is released from the decontamination tent, he mentally suggests people not notice him, though he ought to stop and help Moira, who is losing the argument about Armando’s arrest. After a pause to consider helping out, he realizes he doesn’t trust himself to do anything but hide right now.  He takes refuge in the relative privacy of the debris made up of uprooted trees and twisted fencing that surrounds the nose of the submarine.

With the immediate tension of the nuclear reactor now gone, the adrenaline that carried Charles through the ordeal releases him and his legs turn to jelly. He sinks down next to the cold metal of the submarine, avoiding the crusted ocean debris that smells strongly of brine, not yet dried in the sun. 

He is a murderer. 

The shock of it bleeds out of him in tremors and a soundless scream in his mind, pawing over those few terrible moments. Raven forced Erik to stop his planned execution. Charles intended only to keep Shaw motionless until the authorities could take over. 

Charles had been deep into Shaw’s mind, consumed with the effort of holding such a strong personality motionless. He felt Shaw’s predatory animosity towards Erik, the way the man had been baiting Erik in hopes of either swaying Erik towards Shaw’s cause, or persuading Erik to give in to the rage and hit Shaw hard enough that Shaw could destroy him. 

He still didn’t mean to stop Shaw’s heart. 

He needs the helmet that Logan and Erik destroyed. Why did he ever think that helmet threatened him? It’s the only thing that can keep him safe. He’ll never be able to trust himself again, not without that helmet. 

Shaw had another helmet, the one that blocked his telepathy until Erik pulled it off his head. If he can find that helmet, he can guarantee the safety of everyone around him and keep himself from becoming a monster. Now that he has a workable plan, Charles pulls out of his morass of shock and self-hatred and turns his attention to what’s going on around him.  

The sheer power of what Erik has done within the last two hours is mind-numbing. With fingertips to his temple, Charles scans the humans near the submarine. How many will he have to persuade to look elsewhere while he slips in unseen and retrieves the helmet? He counts minds, noticing the emotional reactions. There is plenty of shock, confusion and disbelief, but nothing has turned to hostility yet. Except one. Someone is in a conflagration of fury, the anger so hot that Charles doesn’t recognize the mind at first.

Once recognition sets in, Charles drops his hand and darts towards the group of people at the submarine’s midsection rather than stay here at the bow all alone. 

He doesn’t make it.

“You knew what that meant to me!” Erik’s voice is low and harsh. He blocks Charles’ escape with his body. 

“Erik, listen to me, it didn’t happen how you think it did,” Charles pleads. Erik has to listen. Charles has to defuse the situation before Erik threatens him and his involuntary survival instinct makes another decision without Charles' input. 

“No, I’ve listened to you long enough.”

None of the terror painted over Charles’ face is because of what Erik might do, but it seems to slow Erik down just a fraction, almost quizzical, as if he’s surprised Charles is frightened.

Logan arrives in a bound, body held taut in the Navy-issue canvas jumpsuit that all of them are wearing. “Erik!”

“Or was it you?” Erik demands of Logan. “Did you kill him?”

“He was dead when I checked for a pulse,” Logan answers. His voice is deliberately casual but his eyes are dangerous.

“Charles and I are having a discussion about that. So fuck off,” Erik snarls.

“Nope. See, it’s my job to stick around if someone is threatening Charles.”

“It’s me, Logan,” Erik says dismissively, turning back to Charles. “You’re about as effective as a marionette with all the strings in my hand.”

“Unless Chuck’s in danger,” Logan answers. He springs his claws, and scrapes a barnacle off the hull of the submarine. 

Charles can’t stifle the gasp of dismay. Logan knows.

“What does that mean?” Erik asks.

“It means I can defend Chuck against you. Wanna try it out?” Logan says. Now those claws are an inch from the soft underside of Erik’s jaw. “Leave. Now.”

Erik’s hand is splayed out in an attempt to use his power, but Logan’s arm doesn’t budge. The shock turning to realization on his face will haunt Charles forever.

“Logan, stop,” Charles pleads.

“The thing is, Chuck, I can’t,” Logan replies flatly, never moving his gaze from Erik. “I’m doing my best not to kill him, though. Back off a bit, would you?”

Before Charles can puzzle out whether that request was for him or Erik, Sean barrels into them.

“They’re arresting Armando! That guy! That white guy! I mean, they’re all white guys, but the one he tackled! They’re gonna lock him up! You know what happens to black guys in jail with a bunch of white guys!” There are undertones of Banshee in Sean’s voice, enough to ring in his ears and start to overload the auditory processing sensors in Charles’ brain that are still sensitive from Emma’s assault.

Sean addresses Erik, not Charles, and Charles wonders how much of Banshee is reacting to the situation and how much is reacting to his fear of Erik.

Erik spares him a second of his gaze, looking at Sean like he’s a bug that Erik means to squash. “Moira will take care of it.”

“That’s the thing! She tried! She’s just a woman, Erik, so they won’t listen to her. This is all your fault!” 

Sean is getting hysterical. Charles puts his hands over his ears to try and block out some of the Banshee harmonics.

“Armando tackled that Captain Kelmsley guy to stop him from hitting you! When we were all on the platform and you were pulling the sub out of the water - Kelmsley was coming at you with a gun. He was going to pistol-whip you, and you were concentrating too hard on that sub to stop him yourself. I would have let Kelmsley have at you. But Armando jumped him and threw him into the ocean. All for you, you arrogant bastard! And if you don’t come and save him right now, I’m gonna shriek until your eyeballs explode!”

Charles can’t make his mind stop processing Banshee’s auditory overload. His eyes are shut tight, shoulders hunched with the pain.

“You two get out of here,” Logan says. His voice is very close; he’s stepped between Charles and the other two. “This will keep. You save your teammate, Erik.”

With Sean falling silent, Charles’ overactive hearing hears the whisper of Logan’s claws retract into his hands. Perhaps that is why the words sound coated in adamantium.

Two sets of footsteps walk away. Charles leans back against the submarine and sinks to the ground. Logan kneels next to him, and he feels the big man’s hand cover his head. Charles doesn’t feel worthy, but he can’t stop the flow of comfort and protectiveness. His mind drinks it like water.

_You knew._

_Hell, kid, you took it from me. Of course I knew._

_A telepath with a survival instinct is a dangerous thing, Logan._

_Erik is a dangerous thing. He would have drilled that coin through Shaw’s head with you linked to his mind if Raven hadn’t stopped him. He would have attacked you just now, if I hadn’t stopped him. How many more times does this have to happen before you see sense? You’ve got a survival instinct now. Use it, you damn fool kid!_

Charles’ eyes go wide, and his face goes still as his mind fills in the things Logan doesn’t know about. Charles killed Shaw for the threat to take Erik from him. He’s prevented Erik from doing anything unforgivable to him. That survival instinct got scrambled into Charles’ connection with Erik in his unconscious, and it’s determined to save both of them together, regardless of the cost to either one of them separately.

* * *

 

Logan doesn’t let Erik anywhere near Charles for the rest of the day. Truth be told, Erik doesn’t try very hard to talk to Charles again. The first flare of anger has burned out. He’s rattled to his core by what happened - Shaw’s death, and then finding out that Charles blocked his power and allowed Logan to threaten him. Part of him is furious that Charles is such a manipulative little snake. That’s the part that dedicated his life to killing Shaw. The other part of him is confused and hurt, and still hoping Charles can make it better somehow. That’s the part that Charles has reawoken this past year. 

When Commander Swann passes on the Navy’s request for Erik to stay and help rebuild the SETT and clean up the submarine, Moira authorizes it immediately. Erik would have waited for them to beg, so he could insist that Armando stay with him. He gets around this by acting as if the authorization includes Armando’s assistance, and no one dares to tell him no. Erik doesn’t trust the military or the CIA with Armando anymore. The unintended consequence is that Sean stays too.

Erik barely notices for the first couple of days, until Sean starts ordering him around. “I told Drucker you’d fix the door on the R&D building when you’re done here.”

All of Erik’s concentration is focused on weaving the metal sheeting of the SETT back together. Alex’s plasma blast vaporized sections of the metal and superheated the edges. The Navy supplied unused metal sheeting for a patch, but the alloy is not identical. To keep it structurally sound enough to hold the pressure of a quarter million gallons of water, Erik is working on a molecular level. This preliminary weave is taking longer than he’d thought. The part of his mind he can spare to think about something else wishes he could brag to Charles about this new skill. He is irritated when Sean intrudes on the imaginary conversation with Charles, complete with Charles looking at him with that broad grin and laughing in delight at Erik’s achievement.

Erik pauses, and looks at Sean until he drops that self-assured expression.

“Dude, Ensign Drucker doesn’t tell Erik what to do,” Armando hisses at him. Neither Armando nor Sean can help rebuild anything, but the Navy command doesn’t seem willing to order the mutants to do grunt work with the ensigns and seamen, and get the fence rebuilt. Pity.

“Commander Swann does. I bet the R&D door is next,” Sean replies, because he never can leave well enough alone.

“None of them are telling me what to do,” Erik snaps. “I’m taking suggestions; I don’t follow orders.” Erik’s hatred of orders and the men who follow them has never wavered. He is not following orders.

“That’s what the professor calls a meaningless semantic distinction,” Sean whispers loudly to Armando.

Erik decides he liked Sean better when he was terrified of him.

Erik stays on base for the next two weeks. He persuades Commander Swann that Armando and Sean can wield a shovel as well as anyone and gets them assigned to repairing fence posts. That gives him some peace during the day time. He can’t do anything about the fact that the military has bunked the three of them together; he wouldn’t send Armando to bunk in with the white guys even if he could. The Navy hasn’t made as much progress as the Army in racial integration, and black men are vanishingly scarce on this base. In their evenings together, Erik starts asking Armando questions about himself in order to give Sean fewer chances to speak. He’s as surprised as anyone to find himself genuinely moved by the racism Armando has faced. 

“It’s not just mutants that people hate for being different,” Armando points out. “I’m mutant and black.”

Erik nods. “I’m a mutant and a Jew.” He isn’t trying to one-up Armando, just find common ground. From Armando’s expression, it seems he understands.

“We should wrap everyone’s differences in one big package and make everyone accept us all,” Sean observes.

“You tell that to Ed Sullivan,” Armando replies.

Moira has approved Armando, Sean and Alex to appear on the Ed Sullivan show. They’re leaving tomorrow for the film studio. 

“You should say it, man,” Sean answers. “You’ve got more to talk about than I do. My biggest gripe is that I can’t get a date, but that’s probably more because I’m a freckled redhead than because I’m a mutant.”

Armando smiles at the quip, but shakes his head. “White guys are going to listen to other white guys before they’ll listen to a black guy.”

“It shouldn’t be that way,” Erik objects.

“If arguing about the injustice gets you anywhere, let me know,” Armando replies drily.

Later that night, Erik stays awake, staring at the ceiling over his bunk, and thinks about Armando’s acknowledgement that he’s going to need to work with the group he doesn’t belong to. If Armando speaks alone, white men can ignore him. But if he speaks together with a white man, they could make some progress. Maybe they could make enough progress that someday Armando won’t need a white man to tell other white men to listen to him. The world isn’t there yet, but maybe someday. Until then, Armando is willing to work with Sean.

Perhaps Charles’ idea that they should befriend humans is not so outrageous. The mutant cause for safety and acceptance may go farther and faster with a few humans on their team. Moira has proven herself. The reason she is arranging appearances on the Ed Sullivan show instead of doing anything important is because the CIA has fired her for some undefined insubordination. Erik respects anyone who is willing to disobey orders. Commander Swann is also surprisingly accepting of him. Erik watches the moonlight filter through the military-issue curtains at the window, and thinks that having Moira and Swann on his team might not be so bad. He smiles at the crosshatched pattern of moonlight. Charles would be happy to hear that.

_Charles._ Sometimes Erik sends out the mental call, knowing there won’t be a response. The times when his anger flares hot enough to hate Charles for what he’s done still consume him. Still, there are times when Erik wants to talk to him. He’s gotten awfully used to talking to Charles over this past year. 

But then the anger comes roaring back. Charles stole the most important moment of his life from him. Erik is not the sort to forgive. It seems inevitable that he will hate Charles forever. Yet underneath the anger sits a layer of grief at the loss. He may be furious, but the grief has softened the anger enough that Erik no longer wants to hurt Charles for what he did. Part of the reason Erik is watching out for Armando is a tacit acknowledgment that he might have done something to Charles that he would have regretted, if not for Sean’s interruption. 

Or Logan’s intervention. That’s another reason to hate Charles - he stopped Erik from using his power. When he’s furious, he hates Charles for his interference. When he wishes he could talk to Charles, he’s reluctantly impressed that Charles would defend himself.

Either way, Erik still doesn’t trust himself to be around Charles. It is safer for both of them for Erik to stay here at the New London Submarine Base. 

The New London Submarine Base is not in a hurry for him to leave. In fact, the base commander is slowing things down. It takes time for the news cameras to set up their film equipment, and sometimes they want Erik to stop and wait for the light to be better, or to change camera angles. No one explains what they’re doing, and Erik doesn’t think to ask.

Then one evening after Sean and Armando leave, Moira takes him to see _Dr. No_ at a movie theater in town. The Movietone newsreel before the feature is entirely about him. The voiceover as he rebuilds the SETT in a matter of minutes makes it sound like he is a patriotic hero who put his life on the line to stop a war criminal from getting his hands on a nuclear bomb, thereby making the world safe for democracy. The movie is propaganda too, all about a spy who drives fancy cars and likes guns as much as Erik does. After it ends, he hears some people in the audience comparing Magneto to James Bond.

He was ready to be hated and feared. He wasn’t ready to be lionized and fictionalized. It’s the sort of thing he wishes he could talk over with Charles.

* * *

“I’m afraid this isn’t a point we’re willing to compromise on,” Charles says pleasantly. He’s speaking to the Secretary of State, as mutants are currently classified as a foreign influence while the United States government tries to figure out which cabinet secretary would have jurisdiction over them. 

Charles knows Moira gave the government an ultimatum about meeting with him immediately, rather than moving at the speed of bureaucratic red tape, informing them that the mutants would like U.S. input before forming a parallel government and declaring independence from the United States. That got their attention.

“You can’t deny the extraordinary benefits and scientific advances you’re asking as to forego,” The Secretary replies. He’s smug, underneath that diplomatic exterior of polite negotiation. He’s used to having the strongest position in the room. “What are you willing to give in exchange?”

Before he can reply, Logan leans forward. Captain Howlett is Charles’ military escort. It makes this government full of World War II veterans a little more willing to talk to a youthful civilian with a British accent. Charles knows that none of the government officials know that Logan is a mutant too. Stryker’s military experiments were the blackest of Black Ops; that’s why he was in Canada. Humans don’t see Charles as threatening if someone they believe is human is towering over him while wearing an officer’s uniform.

“We’ll offer to not destroy the research facilities where the experiments were conducted,” Logan says.

“Though of course we’ll destroy all records of the experiments. No one benefits from mutant experimentation. I’m afraid we’re not willing to compromise on that corollary point either,” Charles says with a smile.

“You’re a scientist, Dr. Xavier, surely you wouldn’t demand the destruction of scientific data that has already been gathered,” The Secretary replies with another smile.

_I was a mutant before I was a scientist. I’m afraid I don’t care about the patents your brother-in-law’s company is applying for based on data gathered from mutant experimentation,_ Charles says directly inside the man’s head.

The appalled look on his face brings Charles more joy than it should.

“Whether you authorize it or not, we’ll be at Three Mile Island this weekend, and all mutants had better be present and accounted for. If you try to move the data, he’ll know,” Logan says with a tip of his head towards Charles.

“Who gave you the information about Three Mile Island? Did you pull that information out of my head, too?” The Secretary demands. “We’ll make that a crime!”

“We’ll have to have some discussions about which human laws will apply to mutants, Mr. Secretary, and our respective jurisdictions. I can confidently say that the mutants would be only too willing to criminalize profiteering from mutant experimentation,” Charles says.

“I got the information about Three Mile Island from another mutant, not from Dr. Xavier,” Logan says.

“You’re working with them?” The Secretary explodes in Logan’s general direction.

Logan’s claws slide out slowly, not enough to threaten, but enough to make a point. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am.” Logan retracts his claws just as slowly.

The Secretary noticeably pales.

The conversation becomes more productive after that.

~###~

The next day, Charles joins Hank for a scientific conference at Johns Hopkins University. Moira introduces both of them. Charles takes ten minutes for a basic introduction, before turning the lectern over to Hank to dive into the cellular manifestation of mutation.

He walks off the stage and joins Raven, who is seated in the front row. 

“You could have taught this lecture as well as Hank,” Raven whispers to him.

“The sooner the humans get used to dealing with mutants with visible mutations, the more progress we’ll make,” Charles replies. “I want them expecting a mutually beneficial exchange of ideas rather than seeing the mutants as simply a scientific curiosity. I know how hard it is to get a new idea into academic minds. With a bit of luck, the novelty of a blue-furred beast speaking Ph.D level science will open a few of those minds.”

Raven sits back to wait for her role in the presentation. Charles can feel the warmth flowing off her mind in waves.

Erik may be lost to him, but he’s going to be a good brother from now on.

~###~

“Charles? Pick up the extension. Logan is reporting in,” Moira says.

Moira is officially on Charles’ payroll as mutant-human liaison specialist. He doubled her CIA salary. She’s efficient and hard-working and doing an excellent job of not letting anyone see how devastated she was to lose the career she’d fought so hard for.

“Three Mile Island is clear. The mutants are present and accounted for. No life-threatening traumas detected, though everyone is shaken up. The data cards and files went up in smoke,” Logan reports. “Get your ass on a helicopter and come meet your new students.”

“Thank you, I will. Once you’ve made the introductions, do be so good as to update Erik on our progress.” Charles keeps his voice professional. Logan can’t link with him through a telephone line, so there’s a chance he won’t clue in to what it cost Charles to make that request, rather than going himself. Charles tells himself that he’s also doing an excellent job of not letting anyone see how devastated he is to lose the man he fought so hard for.

“Sure, kid.” Logan is all business.

Charles hangs up the phone. It’s for the best that Erik stay away, and it looks like that’s what will happen. Charles’ telepathy only acts up when Erik is involved. When Erik is out of his range, nothing untoward can occur. He asked for the helmet that Shaw used, but the CIA wouldn’t give it to him; Levene was worried Charles’ friends would destroy that one too.

Despite the risk, Charles knows that if he had a choice, he would still choose Erik, and so part of him is relieved that Erik will make that choice for both of them by staying away. 

Charles exchanges his cardigan for a blazer and dashes out to the helicopter.

* * *

When Logan finds Erik, he is still working on salvage operations at Shaw’s submarine. Disassembled pieces of the engine are laid out in orderly fashion on tarps, men with clipboards and tools crowding the workspace. Erik is standing apart, hands behind his back, just watching.

“Hey,” Logan greets him. “You on break?”

“It takes them a while to get to the point where my contribution is needed,” Erik replies.

“Lots of grunt work goes in before the flashy stuff happens,” Logan comments.

“It’s inefficient.”

“Most of life is,” Logan says with a shrug. “We cleared out Three Mile Island. We rescued fourteen mutants and destroyed all the experimental data. We saved the shit about the humans involved though. Might have a trial or something. Chuck asked me to update you.”

“Three Mile Island?”

“Yeah, you know, that other place Stryker was using for mutant experimentation. Chuck insisted on the rescue and destruction as a show of good faith from the human government in exchange for not seceding from the U.S. immediately. That bought them another three months to negotiate with us. They figured out what Chuck is doing, and they won’t let him meet with anyone new. He’s pulling too much information out of their heads. Makes them nervous.” Logan shifts his cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“He threatened them with secession?” Erik says blankly. 

“Did you not know about Three Mile Island?”

“How would I? I’ve been here!”

Well, damn, that’s interesting. Chuck and Erik aren’t communicating at all. That explains why Erik wasn’t on the Three Mile Island team. Logan had wondered.

“Do you mean to tell me that Charles is reading minds, letting them know he’s doing it, and using that to pressure the humans to free the mutants they’re experimenting on?” Erik demands.

“He says it’s part of the stalemate. You’re supposed to know about that,” Logan says.

“Yes. I know about that.”

The tense look on Erik’s face gives Logan some hope that Chuck and Erik may be calling it quits after all. Erik is bad news and always will be. Logan told the truth when he said he agreed with Erik’s quest for revenge, but he’s noticed over the decades that men who center their lives on vengeance aren’t much good for anything else, even if they get what they thought they wanted.

“Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t be able to let go of Shaw, even after he was dead,” Logan says. Logan, Erik and Chuck are the only ones who know that Shaw didn’t die of a heart attack. Erik is the only one who thinks Chuck did it deliberately, which is proof positive that he doesn’t know Chuck at all.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you ever break something you can’t fix?” Logan asks. Chuck’s brave face isn’t fooling Logan at all. Logan is a straightforward and simple type. Erik broke Chuck, so Logan should kill him. He refrains only because he knows that if anything happened to Erik, it would shatter Chuck entirely. How can the smartest man on the planet be so damn stupid about what makes him happy?

“No, actually, I’m very good at repair jobs. That’s why I’m here,” Erik replies, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

Logan needs Chuck to be happy more than he needs that happiness to be rational. On a level deeper than conscious thought, Logan knows that Erik needs happiness to be a fight. So he’ll give him a fight. 

“And that’s why you should stay here. I’ll let Chuck know,” Logan says, and walks away before Erik can say anything to the contrary.

* * *

“Magneto, we’ve got everything inventoried. Can you clean the engine gears now? We’ve got the crates ready for packing,” Swann says. “Here, you want this?” He offers Erik a Navy-issue foul-weather jacket. Late October in Connecticut has turned cold, and the sky is filled with iron gray clouds.

Erik pulls on the jacket. He extends a hand towards the disassembled engine gears. After watching naval recruits laboriously cleaning oil, fuel, rust and other gunk off the engine parts, Erik did some experimenting and discovered he can make the metal shiver in such a way that most of the detritus simply slides off. His popularity among the enlisted men instantly quadrupled. Several have even asked to shake his hand, which Erik has allowed, with some bemusement. It takes several minutes of concentration on the floating parts before the gunk begins to rain down on the tarps, and then the gears float over to the crates, where seamen snatch them out of the air and arrange them for transport.

The conversation with Logan has shaken his focus. Some of the seamen have to yank on a part a few times before he lets go of it with his power and turns it over to the humans.

“Did he have good news?” Swann asks when Erik is finished with this assignment. There will be a wait of at least an hour before the Navy is ready for him to disembowel more of the submarine.

“Who?”

“Captain Howlett. Was it good news? You looked a little upset.”

No one but Charles ever asks Erik personal questions. It surprises Erik that he doesn’t mind Swann’s question. “The information was good news. But I’m still angry about what he did.”

“Who?”

“The Man Behind the Curtain, as you call him,” Erik replies. Swann not only explained all the Wizard of Oz references, he made Erik listen to Judy Garland sing _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ on the record player in the officer’s club. The song was full to the brim of Charles-level naïveté and infuriated Erik. “He took something from me, something that mattered.”

“Is he going to give it back?”

“He can’t,” Erik replies shortly.

“Are you going to let him apologize?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity. You two worked so well together,” Swann replies.

“He doesn’t deserve a second chance,” Erik says sharply.

“Not many of us do. Still, I hope my brother will give me a second chance, if you people ever find him,” Swann says. Then he just stands there with Erik, watching the seamen clear the tarps and get the paperwork ready for the next batch of inventory. 

Neither one of them speak again, but there is something clean and pure in the air now: Swann’s hope for another chance with his mutant brother. It leaves Erik realizing how much of his anger against Charles is no more than petulance that Shaw didn’t die how Erik wanted him to. 

Erik had not given much thought to his own life after Shaw’s death. Shaw’s death was to be a talisman that undid the horror of Erik’s life and loneliness. It did none of that. Instead, Shaw’s power to absorb energy and redirect it for destruction became so potent that he has absorbed Erik’s hatred and redirected it, reaching out from beyond the grave to steal a loved one from Erik again. 

Peace was never an option, because Erik is not the sort of person who can feel peace. Except . . . there have been a few times this past year when he felt peace: when Charles was laughing, when the young mutants looped him into the group, when he held Charles close enough to keep the nightmares away, the nights he pushed Shaw from his thoughts and filled his body and mind with Charles. Peace centers on Charles, and if anyone can fix the unfixable, it’s the Man Behind the Curtain who pulls his strings more often than Erik wants him to.

_Did you ever break something you can’t fix?_

Logan’s question and Swann’s hope for a second chance from his mutant brother that he rejected and drove away settle heavily into his mind, mixed with the terrified look on Charles’ face when Erik confronted him by the submarine. 

He almost broke something he couldn’t fix.

Perhaps he should let Charles apologize for Shaw’s death. Although Charles doesn’t deserve a second chance, it might be gratifying to watch him beg for one. Erik would consider bestowing it on him eventually.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Erik tells Swann.


	18. Cuba Part I

On October 22, 1962, the day after Erik arrives back at the mansion, President John F. Kennedy informs the United States that the Soviet Union has stationed nuclear missiles in Cuba, and is bringing more missiles to the island that sits only 90 miles south of Florida. 

The black and white television set fuzzes slightly when the antenna wobbles, and Alex orders Hank to fix it. Hank ends up standing next to the TV, holding the antenna steady, for the rest of President Kennedy’s address.

“To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back,” President Kennedy intones. There is a gravity about the young and handsome president, his charisma sharpened into leadership by the pressure of the crisis.

“If the Soviets are sending submarines, we’ll send Erik,” Alex jokes.

The idea occurs to many more people than Alex, as the world’s two superpowers threaten them all with nuclear extinction. Within a day, the cry for a hero begins echoing through the news. “Magneto! Send in Magneto! He’ll save us!”

Newsreel footage of Magneto rebuilding the Submarine Escape Training Tower and floating the nuclear reactor from the destroyed submarine back to its foundation in the R&D facility plays endlessly in the background, while in the foreground, Walter Cronkite and other news anchors read letters written by prominent celebrities, and even some politicians, begging the government to ask Magneto for help.

Moira manages to censor Magneto’s reaction before it can become public, and then bullies the CIA into sending out handlers to make sure no one with access to a news camera can get access to Magneto.

Alongside the commentators explaining the naval blockade of Cuba are broadcasts of teenage girls holding up signs reading, “Havok is our best shot!” and “Evolve for Darwin!” and “Screaming for Freedom!” Mutantmania has threatened to replace Beatlemania ever since Moira allowed Alex, Armando and Sean to appear on the Ed Sullivan show, which became the most watched episode since the Beatles and resulted in canvas bags of fan mail being delivered to the mutants almost daily.

Within two days of the President’s broadcast, their fan mail has taken a decidedly military turn. “Hey, Professor, do you think I could find a pitch that unravels metal?” Sean asks, reading from his fan mail. “I could sink the Soviet Navy, and not be as egotistical about is as Erik.”

“Hank, how come you never thought to measure the radiation my plasma generates? I’m safer than a nuclear bomb.” Alex has taken to pestering Hank with all the theories generated by his sci-fi geek fans. Some of them are worth considering, and it’s always entertaining to bombard Hank with more ideas than he can process.

Armando’s fan mail from the white boys and girls sounds a lot like the mail Sean and Alex receive; it’s the mail from the black girls and boys that gives him pause: “You could help us. You could change things. The symbolism of a black man who can evolve faster than any white man could end racism forever. Seeing Ed Sullivan talk to you like you’re as important as those white boys changed me forever. The whites have to take you seriously now that you saved everyone from a nuclear meltdown.” Armando feels the weight of every request as if each letter contains all the fears and precarious hopes of a population that has staggered under the burden of racism for centuries. He wants to do something, but doesn’t know how. 

* * *

 

The Cuba crisis releases some of the pressure on the mutants as public attention shifts, and Charles feels like he has time to breathe now. He’s had dozens of interviews with journalists, filmed a segment for broadcast, and is daily responding to letter after letter requesting written articles and materials. Raven and Sean are typing stock answers and mailing back sections of Charles’ doctoral thesis to anyone he thinks could understand it.

The meetings with the politicians abruptly end as well. It’s a relief, but also a concern, because they didn’t discuss the mutants’ willingness to assist the United States in a military action. Logan has described the way the military used himself and Team X, and Charles is not willing to turn any of his children over to the United States government for such use. Besides, the mutant with the most obvious military capabilities is Erik. Charles is leery of making promises on Erik’s behalf, and so he is relieved he didn’t have to dissemble, or admit he didn’t know if Erik would agree to assist.

Charles did not expect Erik to arrive back at the mansion. He came unannounced, and Charles found out when Sean told him that Erik had arrived. Charles pretended he already knew Erik was coming, but truth be told, he’d been steeling himself for the news that Erik had departed for parts unknown once his unexpected cooperation with the Navy ended. With Shaw dead, Erik has no reason to stay with the CIA. 

It is yet more evidence that reading minds does not make him omniscient, as if he needed more proof of his own fallibility.

Erik returned in a cloud of defensive anger, all centered on Charles. Charles has no intention of explaining how the mind link with Logan has been affecting his telepathy to Erik or anyone else. He would still rather be thought of as a murderer than as someone who can kill involuntarily. It’s only Erik who thinks that; Logan knows Charles didn’t mean to do it, and everyone else thinks Shaw died of a heart attack. But then again, it’s only Erik’s opinion that matters to him. Charles has turned the memory of their long-ago conversation in the library over and over in his mind, and each time he is forced to the same conclusion: Charles’ vow to never force anyone to be his friend is what persuaded Erik to cross the line from acquaintances to friends, and then deeper. If Erik knew Charles killed Shaw in an effort to keep him, any connection he had with Charles would wither and die anyway.

He’s been able to keep very busy since Erik arrived. Rather than ask the housekeeping staff to do it, Charles moved Erik’s things back into his own room while he was at the naval base. Erik has taken the hint, and stays away. Charles can’t shift himself as easily as he shifted Erik’s belongings; he continues to sleep on the left side of the bed, leaving room for a man who isn’t there anymore. Charles wakes up reaching for him; having Erik’s mind in the house sometimes tricks him during dreams. He hopes Erik isn’t hearing those dreams.

Several days pass in the silent stalemate between the two of them. Charles uses the time to catch up on correspondence, review the progress the children are making in schoolwork and exercises with their powers, and draw every bit of information he can from Moira. Without her CIA access, she is not receiving extra information about the developing Cuban crisis, but her deep background gives better context to the news reports they receive over the radio and television.

Five days after President Kennedy’s initial broadcast, news breaks that Air Force pilot Major Rudolph Anderson has been shot down by a surface-to-air missile over Cuba. Major Anderson is dead. The United States takes a collective gasp at this evidence that the Soviets are willing to use deadly force against their country.

Within hours, the CIA is on the phone to Moira, offering her a promotion, all of her back-pay, and a signing bonus if she will consent to return to the CIA on special assignment as mutant liaison. Charles desperately needs an official connection to the United States government, and Moira would have been his first choice in any event.

He wasn’t expecting her to closet herself in her office on the phone for most of the day following her re-appointment. Charles doesn’t want to read her mind without her consent, not now that she’s proven her loyalty to the mutants, and he keeps to that promise despite the temptation to find out what she’s doing. His survival instinct doesn’t interfere and violate his ethics again, which is partly a relief and partly a disappointment. Charles wanted to know what was happening. It is the next morning before Moira seeks him out to discuss possible military uses of mutant abilities.

“Without Cerebro, my range is limited. I would have to be within a mile to even hear what the Soviets are thinking; less than that if I’m to control anyone’s actions.” Charles knows his range because Erik insisted he practice with him. “Besides, Moira, the military needs to consider the effect on the Soviets. Would use of mutant power be seen as an escalation? What if they retaliate in kind? We already know the Soviets know of Shaw. What we don’t know is if more mutants are in the Soviet Union right now, preparing for war.”

“A mutant war couldn’t be as bad as a nuclear war,” Moira says with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Erik says from the doorway.

Charles sensed his mind in the hallway, but it still makes his stomach clench with equal parts anticipation and dread to see Erik in his customary turtleneck, leaning against the door frame. 

“Not even you could create radiation, Erik. Decades of cancer; the threat of a nuclear winter; the ordinary fear of people whose only supply of drinking water is contaminated. Pulling submarines out of the ocean is dramatic enough, but not destructive on a nuclear level.” Charles stops talking, belatedly wondering if Erik will take his words as a challenge. 

He does.

“You’ve had me working on a molecular level, Charles. Do you really think I can’t split apart the nuclei of enriched uranium by now?” He meets Charles’ gaze, eyes flat and gray, as sealed off as his mind. 

Yes, why are they worrying about the Soviets when they have a much bigger threat right here in this room? Charles latches onto the anger to keep the hope away. “How long have you been planning to keep your nuclear detonation abilities a secret, Erik?” 

“How long are you going to avoid me, Charles?”

“Moira, would you give us a minute? I believe Erik and I need to have an emotionally charged discussion,” Charles says.

Moira nods as she leaves the room.

“Should I ask Logan to wait outside the door, Erik?” Charles asks, trying to gauge Erik’s anger without dipping into his head.

“Who protects me from you, Charles?” Erik’s voice is soft with danger; he’s never been the sort to yell.

“I’ve never attacked you, Erik, only kept you from yanking Logan around like a puppet.” Charles tests his idea that his telepathy is keeping them both from crossing lines with each other. He has never attacked Erik; he’s never allowed Erik to attack him. His mind doesn’t reject that thought, and so Charles hopes it is true. Charles stands up, so Erik doesn’t loom over him, or at least doesn’t loom over him as much. When Erik keeps his distance, Charles seats himself on the edge of his desk and clasps a knee in his hand, hoping that if he takes a casual pose, he can trick his mind into believing this isn’t as tense as it is.

“It was you on the roof that day, wasn’t it? You stopped me from using my power, and Logan almost broke my cheekbone,” Erik accuses him.

Charles shrugs. “You’d just pitched Logan and me onto the roof using your power. Maybe I thought you deserved it, and I didn’t want to hit you myself.”

That earns him a sharp look from Erik, both surprise and respect in his eyes. That’s right, Erik isn’t used to the idea of Charles standing up for himself.

“Why wouldn’t you want to hit me yourself, Charles?” Erik asks, with a hint of a smile.

“Logan hits harder,” Charles replies, with no smile at all.

Erik drops the smile and studies him, searching his face. Charles does his best to keep his expression neutral, though he opens his telepathy just a bit to see if he can sense anything Erik is projecting. He wasn’t subtle enough.

“Stay out of my head.” Erik is prowling the perimeter of the room.

“Are we back to that?” Charles keeps his tone light.

“You used your power against me.”

“You’re a threat to me, Erik. You’ve accused me of naiveté and arrogance about the threat the humans present to us. You forgot to point out that I’ve also been naive and arrogant enough to ignore the threat that you present to me: naive to think love could conquer the rage that consumes you; and arrogant to think I could help you.” Charles has nothing left to lose anymore, and the despair sharpens his tongue.

That surprises Erik. The emotional reaction leaks out of him, and his eyes flicker with something other than that dead stare. “I wouldn’t have --” Erik starts.

“Hurt me?” Charles cuts him off. “Yes, you would have. I could feel the unhinged rage pouring out of your mind next to the submarine that day. If Logan hadn’t interrupted, and then Sean, you would have hurt me and you know it.”

“Can you blame me? After what you did, can you really blame me for my anger?” Erik throws back at him.

“Who should I blame, Erik? Myself? Was I to stand there and hold Shaw still for you while you drilled a coin through his head? Did you think to wonder how that might have affected me? And yet if I’d let go of him, Shaw would have killed you. You would have forced me to choose between experiencing the torture you inflicted on Shaw, or watching you be killed. Shall I blame you for that? Yes, I rather think I will.” Charles keeps his voice steady, hoping his eyes are as dead and flat as Erik’s. Charles has never been as skilled at hiding his emotions. “I owe Raven a debt of gratitude you’ll never be able to repay. You certainly didn’t stop out of any concern for me.” That shatters the calm in Erik’s eyes. Is he really surprised at Charles’ anger? “Shall we discuss how arrogant you must be, to think that you’re the only one with the right to be angry about what happened that day?”

“Shaw knocked me off-balance, I wasn’t thinking,” Erik replies, his eyes sliding away in something very close to shame.

“Don’t you make excuses! I’m a murderer because of you!” Charles can’t keep his voice steady anymore. He’s about to blurt out everything, and his mind is clawing back the words that his mouth wants to speak.

“Erik, telephone.”

“Moira! We’re in the middle of something right now!” Charles snaps. 

Moira spent all of yesterday on the phone. All leading to this phone call. She stares him down, knowing he just pulled that out of her head and daring him to defy her. 

Yes, well, the nuclear showdown with the Soviets is marginally more important than their personal issues.

“We’ll continue this later,” Charles says stiffly.

Erik, still looking more ashamed than anything, leaves the room. The fact that he doesn’t argue with Moira betrays how off-balance he is right now, because Charles would not have expected Erik to meekly take a phone call.

“Get suited up. You’re going with him,” Moira orders him.

* * *

 

“You have fifteen minutes. Once the chopper lands, we’re leaving,” Moira informs Erik crisply.

Erik only nods. He doesn’t have the emotional energy to spend on arguing with Moira and her orders. There is something breaking loose in his mind. It might be letting go of Shaw. It might be the shock that Charles didn’t meet him with open arms and an apology. It might be surprise that his behavior really was less excusable than anything Charles did. All of those reactions are on the edges. Dead center is the certainty that he wants Charles back. By his side, in his life and in his bed. All of it. Erik doesn’t settle for halves.

For Erik, life has always been a battle to obtain the impossible. With Shaw dead, he needs a new impossible.

Erik suits up swiftly. Charles is still working on the buckles when Erik enters the room they used to share. Charles’ slim body in that form-fitting suit entices Erik to peel him out of it, press him down to the mattress, and hold him there until he’s either spoken from the heart or given that body up to all the pleasure Erik can draw forth. Preferably both.

“Moira already told me,” Charles says before Erik can gather his composure enough to say anything. “The CIA wants us to join the U.S. blockade against the Soviet forces, though they’ve been rather cagey as to what they want us to do once we’re there. They’re under the impression that we work as a team. The Navy is sending a helicopter to take us to New London. Logan is coming with us. We travel to Florida, and then we’ll be dropped aboard a destroyer somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean to hunt for Soviet submarines. Did I miss anything? I know what I’ve missed. You. Why are you cooperating with them?”

Polished, confident, arrogant, a little bit abrasive. He’s every inch the professor that Erik first met, the one who refuses to let the world see when he hurts. The set of Charles’ chin dares Erik to justify himself.

“That was the President on the telephone. He personally asked for my assistance,” Erik answers.

“The President? As in JFK? That President?” Charles asks, eyebrows climbing to his hairline.

“Yes, I just got off the phone with him.”

Charles drops his eyes to his cuff and fiddles with something. “Why would you help the President? Isn’t it beneath your principles to assist a mere human?”

Erik catches Charles’ wrist as he goes to walk past Erik and leave the room. Charles’ snaps his arm up defensively, pulling out of Erik’s light grasp. “He’s one of us, Charles.”

That earns him some eye contact. At the shock of those unguarded blue eyes meeting his for the first time in weeks, Erik feels all that he lost when Shaw died. “He’s one of us,” Erik repeats.

“Well, it appears you don’t have to compromise your principles after all. How fortunate for you.” Charles strides past him as the sound of chopper blades grows loud. Erik can’t help but let his fingers rest briefly against Charles’ lower back, but the touch gets no reaction.

_ Charles, please forgive me. _

Erik doesn’t say the words out loud, and Charles refuses to hear them any other way. 

* * *

 

“Hey, kid,” Logan greets him, stubbing out his cigar against his hand. Logan is in Army fatigues, rather than the blue and yellow mutant suit that Hank made him. Logan grunted at it and hasn’t even tried it on.

“Logan,” Charles replies politely with a nod.

Moira wears the blue and yellow suit, a clipboard in her hand. The pages flap madly in the wind created by the chopper blades. “Charles, are you going to be alright?”

“Of course I am,” Charles reassures her. He knows what she’s asking, and he also knows she’ll let him dodge the question. There’s no time for his uncertainty right now. He’ll be alright because he has to be.

Logan sets a casual hand on his shoulder, and then brushes his fingers against the nape of Charles’ neck and up into his hair. Charles’ shields are so strong right now that the wash of Logan’s protectiveness barely colors his mind. He doesn’t know what Logan is taking from him right now, and he doesn’t want to know. Where Logan and Erik are involved, Charles has locked down his telepathy as hard as he can. Logan drops his hand.

Erik joins them on the lawn as the chopper sets down and the door opens. A man in a naval officer’s uniform waves them in. The four of them climb into the helicopter and strap into harnesses.

“Hello, Commander Swann,” Erik says.

“Magneto,” Swann replies with a nod and smile, his tone as friendly as Erik’s greeting.

“You remember Commander Swann who directed the repair of the nuclear reactor,” Erik says to Charles. “He worked with me on the clean-up of the base.”

“Which means I pointed and said ‘put that thing over there’ and Magneto did all the heavy lifting,” Swann says with a chuckle.

“Does that make you one of my handlers now?” Erik asks with a smile.

Charles is shocked to realize that Erik has made a friend. A human friend.

“I’d rather be a colleague,” Swann replies easily. “We’re both in service to a common cause.”

Charles glances at Erik to see how he responds to the idea of being teammates with a human. Erik’s response is half a nod and smile. Charles keeps his face carefully blank. He wants to read all sorts of meaning into the fact that Erik is on friendly terms with a human, but he doesn’t dare let himself go down that path. It will hurt too much when it dead-ends. 

The helicopter lifts off, and the movement sends Charles into the straps buckling him in. Logan reaches over and tightens one of them.

The noise of the chopper is so loud that Swann passes out noise-dampening headsets for all of them. Moira hands them each a paper from her clipboard, with information that supplements the brief conversation Charles had with her. The CIA has authorized them for a naval assignment due to the current national security emergency. They are joining the antisubmarine warfare force called Hunter-Killer Group Bravo, consisting of the aircraft carrier  _ USS Independence, _ which carries fixed wing attack and reconnaissance aircraft, and her escort of three destroyers. The task force is patrolling the quarantine line 500 miles northeast of Cuba. Their specific destination is the  _ USS Blandy _ , a Forrest Sherman class destroyer with the latest in sonar technology and a captain with a reputation for being able to sniff out Soviet submarines. 

So the United States did decide to send Erik after a submarine.

Charles keeps his head down, relieved that the noise of the chopper makes conversation impossible. Submarines are useless for cargo of any type. The nuclear weapons are on the Soviet cargo ships, most of which have already turned around, and aren’t rigged with launch platforms to fire nuclear torpedoes anyway. Without any nuclear weapons involved, any attack would be limited to conventional weapons, which aren’t dangerous to Erik. 

Good. 

Charles would hate to kill the entire crew of a naval vessel if his survival instinct decided that Erik was in some sort of danger.  

* * *

 

The kid’s a mess. 

Logan bums a cigarette from Commander Swann and watches Moira spit nails at the Navy Commodore who is telling her the Navy won’t allow a woman on a combat vessel in a potential war zone. They’re at the naval air station at Key West, waiting for their plane to finish fueling and take them to the ASW force in the Atlantic Ocean where Erik is going to have a staring contest with a Soviet submarine, or something like that. 

Chuck is perfectly still, standing at the railing of the platform watching fighter jets. He reminds Logan of sheet metal in a vise press, pulled taut and motionless, so tight that when it finally does blow apart or break, it’s almost a relief. Logan has been accompanying the cheerful, collected young man as he’s met with politicians and academics, efficiently and pleasantly pushing the mutant agenda. In company, he’s doing great. As soon as the two of them are alone, Logan sees the fraying kid he carried piggyback through miles of Canada. 

Chuck isn’t a soldier.

Technically, Chuck had already killed Shaw when he did such a great job of keeping the team focused and giving directions to Erik, averting a nuclear disaster. Since then, he’s had two weeks to marinate in what happened. 

From experience, Logan knows that auto-pilot can get you through the immediate aftermath of trauma. Lots of people who do fine in the hour or two after their world detonates will start floundering later. It turns out that Chuck is one of those people. The military knows about it. Shell shock. Battle fatigue. Whatever they’re calling it during the Cold War they’ve got going on right now. The thing is, once you’ve got a soldier compromised like that, you pull him out. You don’t send him in when he might crack under the pressure. He could get someone killed. Or kill someone else. 

Logan could pull the plug on Chuck right now. Commander Swann is one of the decent types, and he wouldn’t pull rank on an Army Captain if Logan told him Professor X is not in any kind of shape to be heading into what they all devoutly hoped was not an active war zone. Logan could take Chuck back to the mansion, and Swann could take Erik to do whatever it is they want him to do.

His eyes shift back to Moira, who is losing the battle with the Commodore. She’s not going either. This might be the right time to get Chuck out of here. Movement catches his eye, and he sees Erik approach.

“How has he been?” Erik asks quietly, with a nod through the window to where Chuck is standing in the open air, leaning against the railing.

“You think you have a right to ask that?”

Erik almost looks chastened. Almost. “I’ve more right than most.”

“You turned him into a murderer. Happy with yourself?”

“I didn’t ask him to kill Shaw.”

Logan thinks Charles should level with Erik about what really happened, but he won’t override Charles’ decision to keep it secret. “What else was he supposed to do? Watch while Shaw killed people he loves? You and I can kill and keep going. Not sure what that says about us, but we can. Chuck isn’t like that.” Logan puts the cigarette back in his mouth. “You’re bad news.”

Erik tenses, and Logan feels the adamantium in his bones tense along with him.

“I didn’t ask him to do it,” Erik repeats.

“And you’re stupid,” Logan adds.

Erik raises his hand and the adamantium follows his pull.

Erik’s gaze slides past Logan, and he drops his hand, giving Logan control of his body again. Logan turns his head to see Commander Swann approaching.

Interesting.

Commander Swann points at the man on the runway waving the ‘ready’ signal flag. “We can board.”

Logan takes a final puff on his cigarette and stubs it out in an ashtray. Erik leaves the shed and approaches Charles. His hand reaches out, but stops short of touching his arm. They exchange a few words, and then Charles turns towards the stairs, Erik’s hand floating unnoticed at the small of his back.

“Captain, what the hell?” Swann asks.

“Not sure I know the answer to that, Commander,” Logan replies.

“I told Magneto to give Professor X a second chance,” Swann says. “They make a helluva team.”

“I told Professor X to get the hell away from Magneto while he’s still got a chance,” Logan says.

“Are they going to be alright? Or blow up the world?”

Logan considers telling Swann that they need to evacuate Chuck. Logan must have more of Chuck left in his mind than he’d thought, because he can’t say any of the things he wants to say.

“One of those, yeah,” he says instead.

* * *

 

The P3 Orion lands on the deck of the  _ USS Independence. _ Erik has heard of aircraft carriers, even seen a picture of one in a book, but the sheer size of a floating airport at sea takes some getting used to. There isn’t any time to look around, other than what he saw when the Orion landed. They hurry from the fixed wing aircraft to another chopper, and he gets to see the  _ Independence _ from the air again. He wonders if the grounds of Westchester are larger than the carrier.

Erik’s eyes find Charles again; he’s watching out the window. His mind has been turning over Charles’ angry accusations all day. Even after JFK said he was a mutant too, Erik said yes to President Kennedy more because he thought Charles would want him to help than because he cared about JFK’s agenda. Shaw was a mutant; JFK is a mutant; Swann is a human; Moira is a human. Shaw’s mutants followed orders and kidnapped Charles. JFK made a request of Erik, but the military operation he is joining will be following JFK’s orders. Swann doesn’t give Erik orders, but he gives orders to other men, and Erik does not despise them for following those orders because Swann is a good man. Moira doesn’t follow orders, and the CIA admitted she was right and begged her to come back. 

The easy black and white divide in Erik’s world doesn’t work as well as it used to. When Erik had a single goal, everything was split neatly into clear categories by that goal. Now, with the goal taken from him, Erik is left with the choice to continue in that black and white worldview that he created for Shaw, or accept the moral complexity of a world full of stalemates and relationships that Charles lives in. He may have made the choice already, unwittingly, not realizing the cost. 

_ Charles? _

No response.

He might have broken something he can’t fix. 

Commander Swann interrupts Erik’s melancholy thoughts by dropping a harness in Erik’s lap and shouting instructions. “Put that on. Chopper can’t land on the destroyer; we’re using the hoist cable.”

Erik considers offering to levitate them down, and then decides it isn’t worth the argument. He’ll wear the harness and control the descent with his power. Charles and Logan are strapping on their own harness. Swann double checks their carabiners, then buckles Charles to Logan with a two-inch ratchet strap. He shifts seats to be next to Erik again, and leans over to yank on all of Erik’s carabiners and buckles as well. With swift and practiced motions, Swann straps Erik to his own harness and shouts, “We go on my mark!” 

It’s a challenge to refine the magnetic field to not interfere with the chopper, while still using it to descending to the destroyer’s deck. The hoist cable is metal, so it’s easy to hold it motionless in spite of the breeze and the unavoidable movement of the helicopter. Erik guides himself and Swann down to the deck of the destroyer, and looks back up at the helicopter while Swann starts releasing the carabiners.

Even knowing he’s going to catch him, it twists Erik’s insides to see Logan and Charles step off the helicopter’s landing skid onto nothing, with only the hoist cable to keep them aloft. Erik slides his power into the magnetic fields and winds it around Logan’s adamantium and draws the magnetic waves snugly around Charles. He resists the urge to wrap both Logan’s arms around Charles, and simply concentrates on bringing the two of them to the deck as quickly and smoothly as possible. His outstretched hand tracks their movements out of the sky until they step onto the deck. 

Charles glances over as Logan starts working on their shared harness and a crew member comments on how smooth their descent was.

_ Thank you. _

_ Always. _

Erik can’t be sure Charles heard his reply, because Charles’ mental touch is gone as quickly as it came. But it had come, even if just for an instant.

* * *

 

Charles and Logan land at the bow of the destroyer, the  _ U.S.S. Blandy, _ over the enormous painted 943 on the hull. It is the most open area of the ship’s deck, which is tidily crowded with weapons, equipment and structures. The sonar towers preside over the deck, search lights positioned just under the flat sonar arrays. The deck rolls gently under his feet, making the muscles in Charles’ legs clench to keep him upright, and he realizes why sailors would need ‘sea legs.’ Walking with a surface rolling under your feet takes a whole different set of muscles.

One part of Charles’ mind is looking around, trying to identify items and realizing how little he knows about the Navy and what it would take to send nearly 400 men to war on the water. The other part of Charles’ mind is cataloguing all the many ways things could go terribly wrong, now that the two of them are back together with so many unresolved issues shoved aside by this crisis.

The feeling from Erik is reconciliation, but Charles doesn’t dare. Being close to Erik risks too much. This survival instinct of his doesn’t ask Charles’ permission before it reaches out to heal what is broken; it doesn’t realize that some things need to stay broken. How far would it go to keep Erik and Charles together? What if there is a threat to Erik, and Charles starts a war to save him?

Conventional weapons can’t hurt Erik, Charles lectures his unconscious mind. The nuclear weapons are on cargo ships, where they can’t be fired in any event, and are already on their way back to the Soviet Union. There is no danger to Erik. If he can tell that to himself often enough, perhaps he’ll believe it.

Just to be safe, he strengthens his blocks to keep Erik out; he can’t risk communicating telepathically with Erik, or even picking up any of his residual emotions. Thanking him for the smooth descent was more than he should have done.

A petty officer takes the harness from him, does something complicated with the carabiners, and fastens it all to the end of the hoist cable, which then ascends back to the helicopter. The helicopter departs, and blessed silence falls. Or comparative silence. There is still the noise of the ship’s engines and the endless susurration of the ocean rolling beneath the ship.

“Sir! Permission to come aboard?” Swann says, saluting sharply.

“Permission granted. What the hell, Swann?” The gnarled New Englander with the squinty eyes returns the salute perfunctorily. He’s in an officer’s uniform, with shoulder boards and ribbons. The two men accompanying him wear bell bottom trousers and neckerchiefs with rate badges on their sleeves.

“Captain Kelley, this is CIA operative Magneto, submarine interface specialist, his assistant, Professor X, and their Army handler, Captain Logan Howlett,” Swann replies.

“You want to clear that up, Dan, or do I have to ask questions?” Kelley asks drily.

“They’re code names, Ed. The CIA insists on it. I don’t even know their names,” Swann says with a sigh. “I know this is irregular, but orders are orders. I’ve seen what he can do to a submarine, and he might be handy to have around.”

Erik raises an eyebrow at Kelley’s scrutiny, or perhaps at the way Swann cited to orders.

“So what can you do to a submarine that my boys can’t?” Kelley asks. Charles gets the impression that he’s insulted on behalf of his crew that the top brass thinks they might need help.

“I have photos,” Swann says, inserting himself into the exchange before Erik can offer a demonstration. He unzips a waterproof portfolio and hands 8x10 color photos of Shaw’s gutted submarine to Captain Kelley. “The briefing is a little hard to believe without the pictures. If I hadn’t seen it firsthand, I wouldn’t believe it myself.”

“Yeah, I had Huchthausen confirm it twice, and I still don’t believe him,” Kelley says, waving over one of the men in a neckerchief and handing him the photos.

Ensign Huchthausen examines the photos, swears under his breath and hands the photos to the tall lieutenant next to him. Lieutenant Lagere doesn’t bother keeping his voice down when he swears. “Holy fucking shit! You did that?!”

Erik shrugs. He’s uncomfortable with the attention. 

It might not matter at all. Captain Kelley doesn’t want them around, and won’t use them.

“You,” Kelley says, pointing at Charles, “stay with Ensign Huchthausen.” He jerks a thumb at the junior officer who looks to be Charles’ age, a broad-shouldered young man with the disciplined and determined look that all junior military officers seem to have. “Ensign, keep him happy and keep him out of my way.”

“Captain, if I may, my abilities lie in gathering intelligence and information, if you would let me know what you need to know, I could be of some use in defusing a tense situation,” Charles offers.

“Bloody hell! They sent a Limey?” Kelley asks this question of Swann. 

“He’s a civilian, a CIA operative.”

“Look, Professor in the groovy suit, I’ve got sonar technicians and communications specialists that do a damn good job. If Top Hand wants to send you along for the ride, I’ll tolerate it, but don’t get in anyone’s way. That’s an order.” Kelley turns to stab a finger in Erik’s direction. “You leave the submarine in the water, that’s an order too. This situation is sensitive enough without you working your voodoo and giving some trigger-happy Soviet sub captain a reason to think he needs to fire his torpedoes. No live weapons have fired during this whole ordeal and I’m going to keep it that way. Swann, you owe me a drink.”

“Sure, Ed,” Swann says.

“What about you?” Kelley demands of Logan.

“I’m just along for the ride, sir,” Logan says with a salute that manages to convey the impression of a shrug.

“Stay out of my way, the lot of you,” Kelley growls, and then turns and walks away.

“I thought they wanted our help,” Charles says, looking between Logan and Huchthausen.

Logan shrugs. “It’s the military. Someone upstairs wanted our help; it’s not like they asked the men on the ground what they wanted.”

“What did you mean by intelligence gathering? If you speak Russian, I’ll put you on comm monitoring,” Huchthausen says to Charles. 

No one on this ship wants a demonstration of what he, Erik and Logan can do, and frankly, it doesn’t seem necessary. “I can translate,” Charles says. He reads thoughts, and thoughts are in language. He ought to be able to read the intentions beneath the words, but he’s never tried to read the mind of someone who doesn’t speak English before. This could be interesting.

“You come with me,” Lagere says to Erik and Swann. “Sherman got a ping, and he’s working to correlate its acoustic signature with the sonar database. We might have found a sub.” All four of them are taken to the pilothouse behind the open bridge, but Erik and Swann are on the port side. Comm is to starboard.

Charles grazes his fingers to his temple and skims Huchthausen’s mind as he follows him to the comm station. It’s Huchthausen’s first assignment out of the naval academy; Captain Kelley is a fatherly sort of captain unless they’re tracking a sub, when he turns into a foul-mouthed fire-breather; having naval command send in CIA operatives is beyond weird, but he doesn’t have anything against a guy with an accent.

Another junior officer is already manning the comm station, with such a look of concentration on his face that Huchthausen is reluctant to interrupt him. “Just stand there,” he tells Charles, pointing.

Charles stands there. Around him, men in uniform study dials, listen through headsets, shout information at each other, and otherwise give the impression of being very busy and important. 

“Sir!” someone yells at Captain Kelley. “We’ve got positive contact on the Soviet merchant transport  _ Yuri Gagarin _ five miles east, and  _ Komiles _ is five miles to the west!”

The bridge erupts into bedlam. Calls pour in to the commodore, and then to the  _ Blandy _ command from the task group commander. The junior officer at the comm station is transcribing as fast as he can when the squawk box whistles. “Exclamation, this is Top Hand.”

Huchthausen’s face goes white, and he looks around wildly, but the senior officers have exited the pilothouse in all the commotion. He gingerly picks up the handset, so overwhelmed at speaking directly to the Atlantic Fleet Commander that his voice squeaks and he has to clear his throat before repeating, “Exclamation roger, over.”

“This is Top Hand actual. With whom am I speaking? Over.” The voice is deep, and drips with authority even over the scratchy ship to shore link.

Captain Kelley appears in the pilothouse, and actually smiles at Huchthausen’s nerves before taking the handset from him and replying, “This is Exclamation actual. Go ahead, Top Hand.”

Everyone else on the bridge is so busy that Charles is the only one who can spare the time to witness Huchthausen’s relief. He offers him a small smile and a nod. The conversation between Captain Kelley and Top Hand finishes within a few seconds. The wave of tension in the bridge bleeds away into relief as the situation with the two Soviet cargo ships is confirmed as stable.

Huchthausen picks up another handset. The relief evaporates into shock and excitement and he says, “Roger, sonar,” and then yells to the entire staff on the bridge, “Sonar contact bearing three four five, classification possible submarine!”

Everyone in the bridge turns to stare at Huchthausen, and Kelley barks out, “Tell sonar I want an evaluation now!”

Bells begin clanging and footsteps echo on the metal decks as the crew runs to stations. Charles brushes his fingertips against his temple, linking to Huchthausen, who is watching the torpedomen load the Hedgehog ASW rocket launchers with olive colored projectiles, stenciled in yellow with “high explosive - war shot,” and thinking that he’s never seen a live Hedgehog round before. His training comes down over the shock, and Huchthausen turns back to his role as the communications operator who links the bridge to the sonar station four decks below, the combat information center, and the main battery plot where the weapons officer is stationed. 

The weapons officer controls the firing of all  _ Blandy’s _ weapons, the antisubmarine torpedoes and depth charges, as well as the five-inch and three-inch guns used in surface engagements. Through the link with Huchthausen, Charles looks into the mind of the weapons officer, Lieutenant Bassett. He’s new to the  _ Blandy, _ but his Harvard education and experience on other destroyers make him one of the most gifted officers on the ship. His adrenaline is tightly locked down, the knowledge that he may fire the weapon that kills someone today is tucked behind his trust in Captain Kelley to ensure that doesn’t happen without damn good cause. 

Charles backs out of the link and does what he can to set a mental block between himself and Lieutenant Bassett. They’re just conventional weapons, he reminds himself. Bullets can’t hit Erik. As long as there’s no threat to Erik, his telepathy should stay under his control.

He looks around the bridge. Erik is exiting to port with Swann. 

* * *

 

“Bearing three four five is that way,” Swann tells Erik, pointing. “Can you sense the sub without moving it?”

“Yes,” Erik says tersely. He holds onto the railing of the destroyer with both hands and bows his head, sending his power out in the direction Swann indicated. Sliding past the trace metals in the seawater, Erik can’t find what he’s looking for. He opens his eyes again. “How far out is it?”

“Sonar range is up to five thousand yards,” Swann replies.

Erik nods. He didn’t search out far enough. Closing his eyes again to better concentrate on the non-visual input from his power, he tries again. There. Twenty-five hundred tons of steel Soviet submarine along bearing three four five, four thousand yards distant. He runs his power over the shape, delicate as fingertips. “I’ve found it. What do you want to know?”

“They’ll have identified it by its acoustic signature. We’ll confirm its location,” Swann says. He can’t keep the excitement out of his voice.

“They don’t want our interference, do they?” Erik suggests. Captain Kelley’s disdain wasn’t hidden at all.

“Well, maybe if we tell them something they don’t know,” Swann counters, clearly eager to show off Erik’s skills to his skeptical friend. “Can you count torpedoes from here? Check the activity in the engines? Anything they can’t discern from sonar?”

Erik gives him half a smile. Swann is a good sort, and the questions are interesting. It’s like working with Charles, only with stakes in the real world. How much can he learn just from scanning the metal? Erik reaches out with his power again, slowing it down to create what is essentially a metal diagram of the submarine. The hull and structure fill in first, crew quarters, mess, bridge room, conning tower and sail. A Foxtrot submarine has three screws, and two of its decks are taken up by the batteries, leaving the living areas exceptionally cramped. The engines are to the stern, but there isn’t as much motion in them as Erik would have expected. “There may be something wrong with the engines, Swann, I’m not sensing any movement in the pistons in two of the engines; the third one is running though.”

“What about the weapons bay?” Swann asks.

Erik slides his power out of the engines and into the weapons. Nothing is loaded into the firing tubes, and he tells Swann as much. Torpedoes are as beautiful as bullets, so aerodynamic and deadly. Erik can’t resist caressing the four torpedoes with his power, winding around the casing and tracing the circuitry. He explores the metallic components to the explosives in the warheads one by one, wondering if he could disarm a torpedo from here. He leaves the third torpedo and slides his power into the fourth warhead and stops dead. 

That’s not right.

“What is it?” Swann asks.

“None of the weapons are loaded into the firing tubes,” Erik repeats. “I have to talk to Professor X.” 

Erik leaves the railing and returns to the pilothouse. Someone has turned off the klaxon, but men are shouting and tensions are high. Charles is standing against the back wall with Logan, trying to stay out of the way, his lips pressed together as he watches the activity. He doesn’t have his fingers to his temple. It isn’t hard to catch his eye, and when he sees Charles looking his way, Erik brushes his own fingers over his temple, a request for a link.

Charles looks away.

The damn fool. So what if he’s still upset at Erik? They’re in a war zone, and the CIA sent Charles to do something useful, not give Erik the silent treatment instead of averting a war. Isn’t that one of Charles’ goals? Keep the humans from killing each other? He can damn well cooperate with Erik’s efforts, or explain why he won’t.

Erik strides across the pilothouse. Ensign Huchthausen looks as if he’s trying to do fifty things at once, but Erik interrupts him anyway.

“Is there someplace I could speak with my colleague privately?” 

“Sure, if you don’t mind stuffing yourself into a storage closet,” Huchthausen answers. “Out that door, two doors to the stern. Don’t shut it because you can’t unlatch it from the inside.”

“Thanks.” Swann has caught up to him by now. “Tell Captain Howlett what we found out about the engines.” That should keep those two out of his way for a few minutes. 

Kelley is swearing a blue streak into a handset and everyone else has more important things to do, so no one notices when Erik clamps a hand on Charles’ shoulder and unceremoniously hauls him out of the pilothouse and into the storage closet. He shuts the door, because metal latches do what he tells them to, and turns his attention to the frustrating professor who is pressed up against him in the tiny closet, lit only from the sunlight filtering in through the vent near the ceiling.

“Hate me later. I’ve got to talk to you! Charles!” Erik shakes him.

“Don’t!” Charles shoves Erik away, which causes him to lose his balance and he ends up sitting on a crate of spare parts for the air conditioning system.

“Where’s your eloquence, Professor? Surely you can do better than that.” Erik is calmly furious that Charles would shut him out. This isn’t personal anymore; it’s business, and Charles can damn well cooperate. Erik grabs Charles’ wrist and yanks him over. He stumbles against Erik’s knees, and Erik reaches up with his other hand to steady him just as Charles falls onto his lap.

To his surprise, Charles doesn’t try to get up, or push Erik away, or even scold him for manhandling him. Instead, he droops against him. Erik wants to savor this, but there is no time.

“I need to talk to you,” Erik says, and taps his temple. “In here.”

“Erik, I can’t link with you,” Charles replies.

“You have to. The torpedo in the weapons bay of that submarine we just found is equipped with a nuclear warhead.” 

“No, the nuclear weapons are on cargo ships where they can’t be fired!”

“Charles, I know what enriched uranium feels like. Three of the torpedoes have conventional warheads, but the fourth one is nuclear. It isn’t cargo; it’s in the weapons bay.” 

Charles closes a hand around Erik’s arm and his forehead almost touches Erik’s cheek. “I wish you hadn’t told me that, Erik,” he replies bleakly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ensign Peter Huchthausen is a real person. He served aboard the USS Blandy under Captain Ed Kelley as electronics materials officer on his first assignment out of the Naval Academy, which just happened to involve the Cuban Missile Crisis. He would go on to have a distinguished career, in which he met the Russian submariners involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis, and eventually wrote "October Fury" (John Wiley and Sons, Inc. 2002), which chronicled the confrontation between the U.S. antisubmarine warfare forces and the Soviet submarines along the quarantine line. The events that Charles and Erik participate in are recounted on pp. 198-219.
> 
> In 1991, after the Cold War ended, the United States and the Russians exchanged information about that tense standoff. For the first time, the United States learned that all four Soviet submarines involved in the Cuban Missile Crisis were armed with nuclear torpedoes.
> 
> The events in this chapter and the next actually happened. (Except without mutants.)


	19. Cuba Part II

Charles can always trust himself to keep up the facade that everything is fine. “I’m fine, Captain,” Charles assures Logan, using his military title because all of the tension around here demands the formality.

“What’s this Magneto found out about the engines?” Logan asks.

“There was no movement in the pistons in two of the three engines,” Erik repeats. Erik followed him out of the storage closet. Charles heard his footsteps, and that’s how he knew where Erik was. He isn’t tracking his mind. At all.

“Is that something you can confirm?” Swann asks Charles. The four of them are huddled in a close group at the aft end of the pilothouse, trying to keep out of the way of the  _ Blandy’s _ men. 

“Professor X! We got something on comm!” Ensign Huchthausen is frantically waving him over. “You said you can speak Russian?”

“I can interpret Russian,” Charles corrected him. 

Huchthausen all but jams a headset onto his head and pushes him down into a seat. In front of him are a pad and pencil, already a third full of chicken scratch handwriting. The constant hum of static in the headset is occasionally punctuated by words, but nothing is clear enough to repeat aloud. He isn’t going to be able to pretend he’s just interpreting. Truth be told, he doesn’t want to pretend he’s baseline anyway. 

“Captain Howlett, Colonel Swann, please explain my capabilities to Ensign Huchthausen. I’m going to have to do more than interpret what I hear if this information is to be of any use. Magneto, point in the direction of the submarine,” Charles instructs them.

Erik points off to port, then brushes his temple again.  _ Charles? I can show you where it is.  _

Charles nods. There is no time to work out their personal issues, though the stakes are now higher than he could have possibly imagined. He takes his shields down and reaches out towards Erik’s mind. Links with Erik are so much fuller than communicating with an acquaintance. They’ve gone too deep too many times, and Charles can’t keep the link isolated from their memories. The raw pain of the day Shaw died is still present for both of them, and there is a burst of recollection that he can’t avoid. During those terrible moments in Shaw’s submarine, Emma had triggered Erik’s memory centers - all the worst ones. Erik had been awash in panic and fight, thrown back into the helpless rage of a youth. The frisson of memory contrasts with Erik’s current mental state - focused and clear, with something akin to hope mingled with regret when he reaches back to allow Charles fully into his mind. Charles acknowledges that Erik was not thinking clearly when he was confronting Shaw in the aftermath of Emma’s assault. Then he tucks that thought away with the hope that blossomed when Erik pulled him into his arms in the storage shed just now. They have a mission to complete.

_ The sub is quite a ways out. Follow my power.  _

There is nothing more beautiful than the glow and pull of Erik’s power, fully under his control, thrown out into the world like a spotlight that glints on the metals that make up the planet. He wishes he’d been linked to Erik’s mind when he pulled Shaw’s submarine out of the water; it would have been as beautiful as lightning. Would Erik allow him to access that memory? Does he dare ask for something so personal?

_ We’re here, Charles. Can you sense their minds?  _

_ Yes. _

_ I’ll leave you now. Thank you for the link. I’ve missed you.  _

The sense of Erik is gone from his head before Charles can respond to the unexpected words. Charles could force the connection, of course, but he’s the one who taught Erik how to break a telepathic link, and he won’t override Erik’s express wishes. There was a warmth to Erik’s mental presence that disappears with him. 

Charles reaches out to the submarine crew and officers, searching for the one feeling the most pressure, because that will be the captain.

There. Captain Shumkov of the B-130. Soviet submarines have numbers, not names. Charles skims into his mind and then sinks in. His breath catches and for a moment he flails wildly, sure that Emma Frost is attacking all of his senses again. The stench of diesel fumes and body odor clog his nasal passages; the heat and humidity of 140 degrees without any fresh air settles in his lungs and presses against his skin; the rashes under his arms, in his crotch, and everywhere the filthy fabric rubs against unwashed skin alternate between itching and burning; the ulcers on his legs have swollen badly, but he can’t sit down in front of his men; the thirst is muffled only by the memory of how bad the water tastes; the fatigue of having only a few hours of sleep at a time for days now coats his thoughts, except where the adrenaline breaks through, because he doesn’t even know whether or not he’s in a shooting war, dammit all to hell, and how can he keep his men safe if he doesn’t have any information?

Captain Shumkov’s thoughts, combined with the ordinary input of sight and sound, convince Charles that he is not under attack; this is simply how Captain Shumkov feels right now. Gradually, Charles inches out into a few other minds. Yes, they are all suffering cruelly from the heat. Oxygen levels are low, carbon dioxide levels are high. There is no way to vent the odors caused by 130 men sharing three toilets and no shower. With two of the submarine’s engines offline, the desalinator can only purify a few liters of water per hour - barely enough for drinking, and certainly not enough for washing. 

Everyone is suffering from rashes and skin ulcers, dehydration and hunger. Some of their rations have spoiled in the heat. Many are suffering from nausea and headaches from the diesel fumes that penetrate the entire submarine. The physical misery is locked down under a conscious stoicism. None of them are angry about the conditions, just determined to do their duty.

Charles pulls back from the crew in general, and follows Captain Shumkov’s thoughts to his communications officer, Cheprakov. Cheprakov is Huchthausen’s equivalent, and Charles quickly establishes that Cheprakov admires his commanding officer as much as Huchthausen admires his own. More, actually. Huchthausen knows to be cautious of Captain Kelley’s temper when they’re hunting a submarine. Captain Shumkov is much calmer; a few days ago, a destroyer ran right over their submarine, only a few meters from penetrating the submarine’s hull with its screws and sinking them. Shumkov snapped at an officer during the nail-biting ordeal, and then apologized to him in front of everyone. Really, Cheprakov’s feelings towards Captain Shumkov remind Charles about how he feels about Logan.

The familiarity of it draws Charles in deeper, and he traces out a few of Cheprakov’s recent memories. 

Oh. 

That’s very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

Several days ago, after Cheprakov relayed new orders from Moscow to Captain Shumkov, Shumkov decided he needed more information to put those orders into context. Shumkov had Cheprakov listen to American commercial broadcasts to try and pick up any information about what the hell was going on. Staying at a shallow enough depth to pick up a broadcast, listening for information from the Americans at all, was against orders. Captain Shumkov lied to the  _ zampolit _ so they wouldn’t be reported to Soviet Command. 

Charles smiles.

Erik is going to like this.

* * *

 

Erik doesn’t even try to keep Logan from getting up in his face until Erik is leaning against the back wall of the pilothouse. 

“Well? What the hell’s going on?”

“Swann already told you. The submarine only has one working engine.”

“And that’s why you had to haul Professor X out of here for a private meeting?” Logan challenges him. “He’s under my protection, Magneto. Don’t forget that.” The claws are still sheathed, but Erik can sense them beneath Logan’s skin.

Swann is right behind Logan, so Erik resists the temptation to throw Logan into the Atlantic Ocean. He hasn’t quite sorted it out in his mind, but he wants Swann to think well of him.

“I had no other way to get a private meeting with Professor X,” Erik says acerbically. There, let Logan chew on the fact that Charles wouldn’t telepathically link with him.

Logan is enough of a bastard to look smug about that. Erik wants to wipe that smirk right off his face. He will win Charles back, and Logan can go fuck himself. They made progress in those few minutes in the storage room, and more progress in the mindlink. He  _ felt _ Charles, felt him understand that Erik wasn’t in his right mind when he set up that terrible choice for Charles on Shaw’s sub, and felt his regret.

“We were able to work out the issue,” Erik says. “Not only was I able to guide the Professor’s mind to the submarine, but he’s very pleased at what he’s found out since then.”

“Is he telling you that telepathically?” Swann asks.

“No, he’s smiling.” Erik nods in Charles’ direction, where Charles has his fingers to his temple and an ear-to-ear grin.

“Should I ask him about that?” Huchthausen asks uncertainly. Even with the hurried explanations from Swann and Logan, Erik isn’t sure that Huchthausen really understands what Charles can do. No one else on the bridge listened to the explanation, and the situation is too tense to interrupt with a demonstration of Charles’ capabilities. Erik doesn’t mind. If no one in authority believes what they can do, no one is going to give them orders. 

Charles removes his hand from his temple, and beams up at all of them before losing the smile and adopting the same serious expression all of officers on the bridge are wearing. “I confirm mental contact with Captain Shumkov of the B-130, Foxtrot class, diesel electric submarine. Two of his engines are offline; the third is running at partial power. Conditions aboard the submarine are abysmal. No immediate threat detected.”

Polite, professional, distant. Then his eyes catch Erik’s, and his lips twitch back in the direction of a smile. Charles wants to smile at him. The way that makes Erik’s heart lurch is ridiculous.

_ Erik. _

_ Good news? _

_ You would like Captain Shumkov. _

_ Oh? _

_ He doesn’t follow orders.  _

* * *

 

Logan is craving a cigarette, or better yet, a cigar. In the eleven hours since the  _ USS Blandy  _ confirmed contact with a Soviet submarine, the tension has narrowed the focus of the officers to the brief reports of activity. It’s a waiting game at this point; not much new has happened. Captain Kelley moves in short purposeful bursts about the bridge, keeping his finger on all the threads that go into stalking a submarine. 

Outside, the S2F Tracker does a flyby every fifteen minutes, confirming that the magnetic anomaly detector again reads the aberration in the earth’s magnetic field caused by the twenty-five hundred tons of the steel Soviet submarine. Erik could easily tell them that the submarine is still there, but no one on the bridge has shown any interest in what Erik and Chuck can do.

Erik has slid down to sit with his knees bent. The exhaustion makes the lines of his face more severe. Swann has been sent to the weapons control center. Logan should have asked him about a billeting assignment for Chuck. 

Chuck’s words are slurring. He’s not even pretending to use the headset anymore, head sunk into his hands at the comm station. Logan can feel Chuck’s fatigue bleeding out all over the place, and he realizes the mental distance Chuck has kept from him these past couple of weeks takes a conscious effort. Chuck can’t keep up the effort. The kid’s telepathy is gone wonky. Best to get him some rest before he does something he doesn’t intend to do. 

Huchthausen is holding the 1JS talker in his hand, connecting the bridge to sonar, CIC and the weapons control officer. Logan has been watching him for hours -- the ensign’s job is to shout out anything any of those stations need to relay to Captain Kelley, and then to relay Kelley’s replies to the various stations. Except for the brief moments when information is flowing, Huchthausen’s biggest challenge is to keep the squawkbox’s long cord from tangling around men and equipment as he follows Kelley around the bridge. 

Kelley veers off to talk to Lieutenant Lagere, and Huchthausen follows too quickly. He comes to an abrupt stop when he gets to the end of his headset wire, and his head jerks back sharply as the sound-powered phone piece cracks against his chin and knocks his steel helmet to the deck with a clatter.

Chuck jumps at the sound, looks around sheepishly, and rubs his eyes.

That’s enough of that.

Swann re-enters the bridge, and Logan approaches him before he can talk to anyone else.

“This is just a waiting game right now. I want a cabin where Professor X can get a few hours of shut-eye,” Logan says to Swann.

“I hate to admit it, but I’ll take that chance to rest too,” Erik says, appearing at Logan’s shoulder and sounding as diffident as Logan has ever heard him. He gives a yawn that looks theatrical in its sincerity. Erik’s behavior through this whole ordeal has mystified Logan. Is he actually apologetic? Sometimes it looks like Erik has realized how badly he fucked up and he’s trying to get back in Chuck’s good graces. It’s a strange look on someone so combative.

Swann tells them where there’s a vacant junior officer bunkroom. “Go get a few hours of rest. We’ll call if there’s an emergency,” Swann tells Erik.

Logan wants to shut him down, but he’s got no way to refuse to let Erik go with Chuck without telling Swann more than he wants to say. 

Erik crosses to the comm station, and bends down to speak quietly to Chuck. Chuck looks up at him, and the fatigue has left him unable to mask his expression. He’s hopeful in the face of what are apparently kind words from Erik. Damn. Logan has never seen a smile that gentle on Erik’s face. The two of them don’t touch, but when Chuck stands up to walk next to Erik out of the pilothouse, there is an intimacy between them that is more than physical.

“Captain?” Swann asks quizzically.

“Don’t ask any questions you don’t want to hear the answers to,” Logan shuts him down.

Swann says nothing further.

* * *

 

The spare bunkroom is tiny. Two single-width bunks are built into opposite walls. The room is shipshape, and Erik realizes why that word means what it means. There is not room for anything to be out of place. The room is utilitarian. These men are here to do a job, and the room is not a home; it’s equipment.

Charles’ exhaustion has made his mental shielding sloppy. Erik can feel his fatigue, though he’s not sure how much is his and how much belongs to Charles. Charles stands there, staring at the bare mattress on the bunk, and Erik wonders if Charles has ever had to put sheets on his own bed before. Erik steps around him, opens the drawer just below it, and pulls out a starchy cotton sheet and a drab blanket. He hands the blanket to Charles, who takes it automatically, and puts the sheet on the bunk for him.

Charles needs to rest, and Erik does not intend to start a long and intense conversation, but Charles will rest better if Erik clears up a few things. The accusations Charles made before Moira interrupted them when President Kennedy wanted to speak to Erik have been weighing on his mind.

“I am sorry for what happened on Shaw’s submarine, truly I am. I did terrible things. I didn’t think of the impact on you. I have no excuse.” Erik steps up behind him, but Charles doesn’t turn around. Erik waits, and there is just a fraction of a nod from Charles. He’s still feeling some sense of Charles in his head. Charles may not be responding, but he is listening, so Erik continues,“I didn’t intend to have things end the way they did. I don’t think you did either.” 

Erik meant those last words as a bit of dark humor. He wasn’t prepared for the wash of panic from Charles’ mind, and then the mental shock of Charles’ slamming shields up so hard and fast that it leaves Erik blinking in surprise. Charles didn’t get those shields up fast enough though.

“Charles, what do you mean, ‘how did I know?’ What is it that I know? It’s about Shaw’s death, isn’t it?” The idea that Charles is keeping something from him has never entered Erik’s mind. He places hands on Charles’ shoulders and guides him to turn around and face Erik. Charles’ shields are so strong that even the physical contact brings Erik nothing of Charles’ mind. 

“Nothing, obviously, nothing at all,” Charles says.

“You’re very bad at lying, Charles.”

They stand there for a moment, Erik’s hands still on Charles’ shoulders. Erik’s eyes are quizzical; Charles’ are scared.

“You try to keep secrets, but they leak out eventually,” Erik points out. “You’ve trusted me before.”

“Not with something like this. Can you trust me enough  _ not _ to know?” Charles asks, gathering up some confidence.

“I don’t want secrets between us, Charles, not if we’re to work together.”

“Are we going to work together? I was under the impression that you were going to hold a grudge because I killed Shaw, and stopped you when you tried to control Logan. I know how skilled you are at holding grudges. I’ve no desire to be the next Shaw in your life.” The fear is evolving into defensiveness.

“But the stalemate between us and the humans?” Erik asks. “That’s going to take both of us together.”

“Yes, well, I suppose we can have a personal stalemate as well.” Charles’ eyes are calm and cool.

This is not how things were supposed to go. Charles was supposed to beg for Erik’s forgiveness, not push back at him and seem to be relieved to keep Erik at a distance.

“So you keep your secret and I keep my distance? Is that how this ends?” Erik challenges him. He tamps down on the way that prospect twists his stomach and threatens to dim his future into nothing but schemes and revenge. When did schemes and revenge become the dreary alternative? 

“Your revenge has always been more important to you than I ever was, Erik,” Charles says. “Perhaps I’ve found things that matter more to me than you do as well. I’d hate to waste any time pining after you.” Charles has shields up so strongly that he can’t sense how his words plunge a knife into Erik and then twist. 

Erik’s fingers tighten on Charles’ shoulders.

“Take your hands off of me,” Charles says.

Erik raises his hands, turns, and pulls the sheet out of the drawer beneath his bunk. Mechanically, he shakes out the sheet and begins tucking it in. For the first time, he begins to shift the blame for what happened from Shaw to himself. This rift between them is not because Shaw has reached out from beyond the grave to sabotage Erik’s life again, it is something Erik caused because of his obsession with Shaw. Charles was never as important to Erik as revenge.

The bunkroom is so small that Charles’ foot brushes against Erik when he pulls off his boots. “Beg pardon,” Charles says politely.

As if Erik is a stranger rather than the man who used to share his bed.

“You don’t need to beg my pardon for touching me, Charles. If I had my way, you’d be in this bed with me,” Erik replies quietly, spreading out the blanket, back still to Charles.

“I know how determined you are to get your way, Erik, and I’ll thank you not to resort to extreme measures.”

Erik feels the rage flare at what Charles has just implied, but the realization that he broke trust with Charles first slows him down enough to illuminate an insight. Earlier, Charles seemed to be softening towards him, and now he is pushing Erik away as hard as he can. Erik remembers when Charles shifted.

“You must be very desperate to keep that secret from me,” Erik comments.

“I’m tired, Erik,” Charles replies. “I need to get some sleep.” Charles lies down on the bunk, then curls onto his side, in the position Erik remembers so well. His shoulder would fit neatly under Charles’ cheek, in the place of that military drab pillow that has to be folded over three times to be thick enough.

Taking responsibility for the distance between them means taking back the power to close that distance. If he blames Shaw, then Shaw holds all the power. If Erik admits it was his actions that caused this, then perhaps he can fix it. He told Swann he was good at repair jobs. He’s spent days weaving metal back together, on a molecular level all the way up to enormous sheets of steel. Erik has learned that it’s what you can’t see that determines the strength of a repair job.

“You’ve told me that I would someday have to choose between you and Shaw,” Erik begins, seating himself on his bunk. “I thought I could have both. I thought that I could kill Shaw, and then have you. I didn’t realize that I would have to choose between you and Shaw after he was dead.”

The room is full of tension now, thick and dreadful. 

“You can keep your secret about Shaw’s death, Charles. Whether you want me back in your life or not, I won’t ask you to tell me anything you would rather not say.” Erik sets his boots down and lies down on the bunk. It’s not any less comfortable than many of the places he’s slept over the years. With the gentle rocking of the ship beneath them, it’s better than most. The interior bunkroom doesn’t have a porthole, so when Erik turns off the light switch with his power, the darkness in the room is absolute.

They lie their in their silence and darkness for a few moments.

“Thank you,” Charles says quietly.

Erik nods, though Charles can’t see him. Over the years, he’s perfected the ability to sleep anywhere at any time, regardless of inner or outer turmoil. It serves him well tonight, and he drops off to sleep immediately.

* * *

 

Charles waits for Erik’s breathing to even out before he loosens the tight grip on his mental shielding. Erik has surprised him, and it causes more turmoil than joy. Charles had braced himself for heartbreak and separation. The prospect pained him, but also relieved him. Without Erik around, his telepathy has been predictable and well-behaved. 

Yet he knows he won’t give up Erik, no matter what it means for his telepathy.

In his sleep, Erik takes a deep breath and lets go of a long exhale. 

It sounds peaceful.

~###~

Not enough hours later, Charles rouses to Logan banging on the door and hollering at them to hurry back to the bridge. Charles sits up as Erik turns the lights back on. Digging the heel of his hand into his eye with one hand, and pulling on a boot with his other hand, Charles catches a glance of Erik, sleep-fogged and rumpled. He looks away before Erik can catch his eye.

“Charles?”

He glances up, fingers clumsy on the boot buckle.

“We’ll have to link telepathically. To keep this situation from blowing up, we’re going to have to talk to each other,” Erik points out. He’s seated on the bunk, hands on his thighs. Somehow he already got those boots on. 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Charles drops his eyes to figure out why the boot won’t buckle.

“I won’t try to find out whatever it is you don’t want me to know,” Erik says.

“Do you mean I can have you and my secret both?” Charles asks. “Do you still mean what you said earlier?” The buckle finally cooperates.

He and Erik stand at the same time. In the tiny room, the two of them are too close. Charles tenses and ducks his head, fastening his eyes on Erik’s collarbone. Erik wants to kiss him, and if he allows it, Charles will cling too hard and want too much.

“I want you back, Charles. You set the conditions. Anything you want. Anything at all,” Erik says softly, his breath warm on Charles’ ear. 

It’s everything he’d hoped for, and more than he can deal with right now. “I want us to prevent a nuclear war,” Charles says.

“Is that all? I thought you were going to ask for something difficult,” Erik answers.

Charles can’t keep the smile from breaking out all over his face.

Erik’s laughter is still a gift.

* * *

 

In order to read a mind that doesn’t think in English, Charles has to link closely with Captain Shumkov. He feels his emotions and sensations, catches glimpses of visual memories, hears the cadences of the Russian language blend with the communications and plucks out emotions and intentions that translate into English words in Charles’ mind. It’s fascinating. He should write a paper about the human mind’s determination to communicate in words, even across language barriers. 

The miserable physical conditions combined with the stress of being stalked by the  _ Blandy _ and the Orion P3 aircraft is wearing on Captain Shumkov, and he snaps at a crewmember, then immediately feels ashamed of himself. Charles hears a clang echo through the submarine and feels the hair raise on the back of Shumkov’s neck.

“What the hell was that?” Shumkov demands of the damage control officer.

“Engine room reports flooding beneath number two main shaft, salt water coming in from somewhere,” the damage control officer reports.

“Get me the chief mechanic on the line,” Shumkov says, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Charles resists the temptation to soothe Shumkov. He needs the adrenaline from this new worry to break through his fatigue. Perhaps Shumkov’s worry is coming through the link with Charles; perhaps Charles is worried about them on his own account. The B-130 is taking on water, with two engines already out. Shumkov’s orders are to avoid detection and engagement at all cost. He is frustrated at the effort to follow this order when he knows the  _ Blandy _ has already found them.

“Sir, forward torpedo room requests permission to arm numbers one and two torpedoes to run prefiring check,” Cheprakov reports.

“Permission not granted,” Shumkov snap back quickly, “We’re not at war, we’re still just tracking. Get the torpedo officer on the line.”

“Sir, the chief mechanic is on the line, channel three.”

Shumkov reaches for the mike swinging from the overhead cord, blinking sweat out of his eyes. His mind is full of the special torpedo that was hoisted aboard in Sayda Bay, three weeks ago. It’s nose is painted purple, to distinguish it from the conventional torpedoes. 

Carefully, Charles slides down that memory into more thoughts about the ‘special’ torpedo. Shumkov doesn’t trust the physicists who told them the warhead could kill everything within a ten mile radius of detonation, and the submarine would clear the blast radius before it detonated. He’s worried about the real risk that the B-130 would get caught in the blast radius and destroyed. 

The other thought in Shumkov’s mind is a repetition of the orders he memorized about when he was to fire the nuclear torpedo: “first, in the event you are attacked with depth bombs and your pressure hull is ruptured; second, if you surface and are taken under fire and hit; and third, upon orders from Moscow.”

Charles relaxes minutely. Captain Kelley has repeated his determination to keep this from becoming a shooting war. He won’t drop depth charges. Since the B-130’s hull is already leaking, a hull rupture is almost guaranteed. Depth charges would lead to Shumkov firing that nuclear torpedo.

Captain Shumkov takes the call from the chief mechanic, who informs him that the main gears in two engines are cracked through. Shumkov gives him permission to take the engines out of commission. “Rig for quiet,” Shumov says. “Shut down the main electric drive, engage economy drive motor. Sonar, give me a bearing.”

“Bearing one two zero, range four thousand meters. Sir, the American’s turning in again, and increasing speed. She’s going to run over the top.”

Shumkov nods. Part of getting stalked by a destroyer is the nerve-wracking experience of having the ship pass directly over the submarine. As long as the American captain did not attack, this was nothing more than another reason to bite his nails.

Suddenly, three loud explosions rip through the submarine.  _ Click-boom! Click-boom! Click-boom! _ Dust flies from the overhead as the explosions rattle the submarine. A slight mist forms in the air.

A layer of calm comes down over Shumkov’s mind because his men need a calm leader. “Rig for depth charges.”

Charles knows that layer of calm had nothing to do with him, because his own mind has exploded with the fear of what Shumkov will do in response to those depth charges. He rips off the headset he’s pretending to use. “You’re dropping depth charges?” Charles yells at Huchthausen. “What the hell?”

Charles’ shout attracts the attention of Captain Kelley, and he is not happy to be interrupted. “Shut the fuck up, Professor! I know what the fucking hell I’m doing. Keep your dumbass opinions to yourself and keep your voice down. If I want help from you, I’ll bloody well ask for it. Dumbshit civilians. Carry on!”

Kelley has been swearing like the proverbial sailor through this entire ordeal, and his anger is an explosion of tension at the situation, not any real animosity towards Charles, but it still rattles Charles.

“They’re not depth charges, they’re grenades,” Huchthausen explains to Charles in a low voice. “It’s a signal. We told the Soviets that if we find a submarine, we’ll drop grenades as a signal to surface. If the sub comes up on an easterly course, that’s the safety course and we won’t fire on them. Cap’s just telling the sub we found ‘em and they need to surface.”

Charles shakes his head, fingers at his temple and still linked to Captain Shumkov. He discerns the reason Shumkov is certain the explosions are caused by depth charges. “They’re too loud for grenades; they’re exploding too deeply.”

Huchthausen grins, totally out of place in this context. “Nah, they’re grenades. The Captain has us stuff them inside toilet paper rolls. The handles can’t spring until all the toilet paper disintegrates, so they explode three times as deep as usual. They won’t do any damage to the sub. Well, you know, other than blowing out some of that sensitive sonar equipment.”

“Toilet paper rolls?” Charles repeats blankly. The first salvo in the nuclear war that will destroy the entire world is going to be caused by toilet paper rolls? He hasn’t told anyone that the B-130 is taking on water already. Captain Shumkov has orders to fire the nuclear torpedo if depth charges rupture his pressure hull. 

_ Erik? _

_ Here. _

_ Check the integrity of the B-130’s hull. Repair any leaks, and keep the pressure hull from rupturing. _

Charles returns his mental focus to the B-130’s command center in time to hear the exec shout, “Sir! These are not depth charges, they’re reduced charges, hand grenades! That’s a signal, sir, not an attack!”

“Bullshit, Frolov! Those are depth bombs! They’re too loud at this depth for grenades!” Shumkov replies, the tension winding him up.

“No, sir, they’re not!” Frolov insists. “If they were, we’d be going down already; there, one just bounced off the bow planes forward. They’re loud and scary but not terribly deadly.”

Charles relaxes minutely. He didn’t tell Frolov they were grenades; the exec figured it out for himself. Shumkov has a good crew, and Charles is again impressed at the mens’ determination to do their duty despite the misery and pain all of them are experiencing as the heat soars and the oxygen levels continue to drop.

“Any sign of the aircraft?” Shumkov asks the sonarman. They’ve been dogged by a tracker aircraft since shortly after the destroyer pinged them.

“Yes, sir. I can still pick up the pings from the last active sonobuoy pattern but no low-frequency drone. Sir!” The sonarman suddenly sits up stiffly. “Sir! Contact is speeding up, and . .  he’s turning right toward us, sharply, sir. He’s going balls to the wall, sir.”

“Understand,” Shumkov replies calmly. “Helm, steady as she goes. He’ll come flying over again and we’ll just sit tight.” 

Charles can hear the sounds of the destroyer’s screws through Shumkov’s ears, and through his own ears above the water. 

“Range?” Shumkov asks.

“Two thousand meters, sir.”

Shumkov grips the plot table, his mind full of the certainty that the American destroyer would not attack, at least not unless he had a solid reason to think they had launched something first. Did the Americans realize they were generating a fire control solution?

Charles opens his eyes and watches Kelley pace the deck, coordinating the actions that are ramping up the tension aboard the submarine. Did he dare say something to calm the situation? He doesn’t trust his telepathy to not use its own judgment if he tried to telepathically release some of the tension in either captain. Kelley gives the order to drop more grenades. Shumkov is supposed to surface on an easterly course in response to that grenade signal. Kelley isn’t supposed to shoot if Shumkov surfaces on the safety course.

Through Shumkov’s ears, Charles hears more grenades explode one by one, and then Shumkov waves over his exec, Frolov. Frolov’s stoicism and calm through this entire ordeal has made him a rock for Shumkov to rely on, and for the first time, Shumkov really looks at him. His body and face are covered in ulcers and a horrible red rash.

“Why the hell do you look so bad?” Shumkov blurts out before civility can censor the words.

“Sir, it’s the diesel vapor fumes and the battery acid fumes together. Can’t do anything about it unless you can rig a swim call. Can’t do anything in the shitty shower the engineers can’t even make work,” Frolov explains.

Shumkov nods. They’re all miserable, but he has other priorities right now. He gives the orders to bring in another sonarman to spell off Kutov, whose fatigue is compromising his performance. Then Shumkov asks the damage control officer for an update on how much oxygen and carbon dioxide they’re breathing. The report is not good. Not good at all.

They can last another half hour submerged. It’s the carbon dioxide that worries Shumkov the most. Carbon dioxide scrubbers can’t keep up with the load, and they are already overheating, making them an additional fire hazard. The slightest amount of oil touching them or near them could cause a serious explosion and fire. Shumkov decides to hold on a bit longer.

On the bridge of the  _ Blandy _ , Charles digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and pulls on his hair to avoid screaming. Why won’t he surface already? They’re going to suffocate down there!

“Sir!” The navigator suddenly appears in front of Shumkov. “We’re getting an unscheduled low-frequency broadcast. It’s an operational signal telling us to avoid contact.”

_ Thanks a lot, fleet commander, _ Shumkov thinks, but only Charles hears it.

“Sir,” the navigator continues, “they’re sending again the U.S. notice about using grenades to signal a submarine to surface. We’re supposed to surface on an easterly heading to show we understand.”

Shumkov cut him off. “We’re not surfacing until we have to.”

One hundred meters above them, Charles about chokes in shock. How much longer does Shumkov think he can hold on? 

“Igor, how much longer can we maintain this depth on minimal speed?” Shumkov asks his damage control officer.

The young officer replies, “Comrade Commander, at the rate the ventilation is working, we have about half an hour; then we’ll have to cut in emergency breathing banks in all but the forward torpedo room. They can last another ninety minutes.”

“Comrade Commander!” the sonarman interrupts, “They’re coming again, straight in from the north, high speed! Sir! Something’s in the water, dropping. Sounds like a depth charge!”

Shumkov grabs the mike from him and shouts into it, “Hold tight! Rig for depth charges! Prepare to flood numbers one, two, three and four torpedo tubes!”

The navigator looks at the captain, and the words are torn out of him. “Sir, number two torpedo tube has the special warhead!”

Shumkov is so dumbfounded he can’t think to reply. How does the navigator know? Does the entire crew know about the nuclear warhead in their torpedo bay? 

On the  _ Blandy,  _ Charles decides he needs to interrupt Captain Kelley and tell him what’s going on, nuclear torpedo and all. He’s about to take his hand away from his temple, when the burst of panic from the direction of the B-130’s torpedo room stops him.

Through Shumkov’s eyes, Charles sees Frolov holding a receiver in his hand, the cord stretched out as far as it will go. “Sir, the special weapon security officer in the forward torpedo room wants to talk to you.”

The special weapon security officer had come aboard with the nuclear torpedo, rigged a hammock in the torpedo bay, and refused to leave it for the entire voyage.

Shumkov grabs the receiver from Frolov. “This is the captain. What do you want?”

The weak and shaky voice of the special weapon security officer infuriates him. “Sir, we can’t arm that torpedo without specific instructions from the Special Weapons Directorate of the Main Navy Staff, sir.”

Shumkov cuts him off with a foul oath. “Why the hell don’t you dial the headquarters on your little telephone and ask them? Or doesn’t it work a hundred meters below the sea?” Shumkov is beginning to think the whole special weapons issue is just a bluff to scare the Americans. They probably know all about it too. Is the warhead even nuclear? Or was he just told that?

Charles is aghast that Shumkov might fire the torpedo to call a bluff.

As fast as Shumkov’s anger flares, it’s gone, and he acknowledges to himself that the special weapon officer is incredibly young and frightened. “Have you ever been aboard a submarine before, young man? Look, just do as you’re told, and I’ll handle the permission.” Shumkov hands the line back to Frolov, who speaks for a few more seconds before putting the receiver back in the cradle.

“What do you think?” Shumkov asks his exec.

“The security officer fainted. That was Voronov on the line. He said the guy pitched forward on his face. I sent the medical officer up to look at him,” Frolov replies.

Charles touches his consciousness in the weapons bay. Yes, the special weapon officer is out cold.

“Oh, he’s just scared,” Shumkov says, wiping his face with a rag that is only marginally cleaner than his face. Then he pulls Frolov by the arm out of earshot of the other officers. “I have no intention of arming or shooting that weapon. We’d go up with it if we did. That conversation was for his ears,” Shumkov nods in the direction of the  _ zampolit, _ the political officer who will report all of their activity to  Soviet Command. “Regardless of what happens I know he’ll report what I was or wasn’t prepared to do.”

Frolov just stares at Captain Shumkov while, a hundred meters above them, Charles’ heart starts beating again. Captain Shumkov and his radical insubordination may endear him to Erik, but Charles really doesn’t want to live through another bluff like that.

“Stand by,” Shumkov announces, striding back to the main command area, “make turns for two knots, right full rudder, prepare to launch a decoy noisemaker aft.”

Charles shakes his head. Twenty-five minutes of air left, and Captain Shumkov is still trying to play games with the  _ Blandy. _

Around the tension, another idea is edging its way in. Erik is right. You can only really trust a man who refuses to follow orders.

* * *

 

Erik’s power rests lightly on the B-130 as he watches the activity on the bridge with the rest of his attention. He’s watching for leaks in the hull. The weave he put in to stop the leak in the engine room is still holding, and he fixed a patch of welding close to the sail before it could cause a problem.

Most of his attention is on the nuclear torpedo, examining the nuclear structure of the enriched uranium. He believes he could trigger it, but stopping an explosion is beyond him. Erik might be able to hold the torpedo in the tube if Shumkov tried to fire it, but then the explosion would destroy the B-130 and its entire crew. Charles is not blocking Erik out anymore, and over these past two hours, Erik has heard Charles’ relay some of what is going on between Captain Shumkov and his officers and crew. The stoicism of the crew has impressed him. He would save young Cheprakov, if he could.

Huchthausen hasn’t had much to say in the last hour or so. The tracking maneuvers have become automatic. The  _ Blandy _ would close in; the Soviet sub would take evasive action; the  _ Blandy  _ would re-establish the search pattern and reacquire contact. Other than dropping the grenade signal, all the activity is devoted to tracking. 

Captain Kelley has orders to keep the Soviets from positioning nuclear weapons in Cuba. He’s repeated aloud his determination to do everything he can to keep this volatile situation from turning into a shooting war. Kelley is a firecracker, full of explosive language and abrupt movements, but there is no cruelty. None of the men on the bridge are obeying him out of fear. Erik knows what that looks like, and he doesn’t see it here. These men trust Kelley; they respect him; they’re proud to serve with him.

When Kelley blew up at Charles when Charles yelled about depth charges, Erik’s eyes had sought out Swann. Swann had bent close to whisper, “Ed’s angry at being called out for something he would never do anyway. Tell your friend he can trust the Captain not to turn this into a shooting war.”

Erik had felt Charles touch his mind, but he hadn’t relayed Swann’s message because Charles asked him to repair the leak in the B-130’s hull, and because he was turning over what Swann had said and needed to think it through.

Captain Kelley is following orders, and everything will be alright because they are good orders. President Kennedy doesn’t want to start a war with the Soviets, and the orders reflect that. But aside from that, Erik doesn’t believe that Kelley would follow bad orders any more than Shumkov would. The men under their command trust them, and both leaders are worthy of that trust. Erik lets his mind drift back to the confrontation with the ‘pig farmers’ in Argentina who tried to erase their guilt by saying they were just following orders. He is absolutely certain that Kelley would never follow orders like those.

The issue isn’t orders; the issue is a moral filter. Good men have a moral filter, and will disobey orders when necessary. Or women, Erik amends the thought, like Moira. Good people don’t let authority figures change the definition of right and wrong. The pig farmers in Argentina didn’t have a moral filter; they accepted the corrupt orders they followed.

Huchthausen ducks out of Captain Kelley’s way as he strides over to another control panel. If Kelley gave the order to fire on the B-130, would Huchthausen relay it? What kind of moral filter does Huchthausen have?

When Kelley explodes into another profanity-laden tirade, Erik glances over at Swann, who takes Kelley’s outburst in stride. Swann would disobey orders to protect the men under his command. Erik hasn’t seen him do it, but he believes it anyway. Swann has a moral filter. If Swann is willing to trust Kelley, then Erik is willing to trust Swann’s assessment of Kelley. Kelley won’t shoot first; those are his orders. Huchthausen knows that about his captain, so his obedience to any order Kelley gives will be based on that trust.

If you trust someone, you can trust the orders.

Erik studies Charles, who has his eyes closed, fingers at both temples, his face tense with the strain he’s borrowing from Captain Shumkov, more than 100 meters below them. Charles trusts people instinctively; that’s why he trusts orders. Charles also has a strong moral filter. He could obey orders from Charles.

Orders. Trust. If Kelley were a different sort of person entirely and tried to start a war, would Huchthausen deserve to die for trusting the wrong man? If Shumkov obeys an order from Moscow and shoots first, would Cheprakov deserve to die? Finally, Erik understands why Charles wants to exonerate men who are just following orders. Not everyone is in a position to disobey orders.

Erik is still studying Huchthausen and wondering if he would let him die for the crime of trusting the wrong person when he presses the 1JS receiver to his ear. An instant later, Huchthausen relays the information to Captain Kelley: “Bridge, sonar; hydrophone effects bearing zero five zero; sounds like a torpedo!”

Captain Kelley grabs the front of Huchthausen’s khaki shirt, lifts him off his feet, and slams him against the forward bulkhead of the pilothouse. The young ensign’s helmet clangs and falls over his eyes. Erik gently lifts it back to his head.

“Dammit! Tell sonar to say again!” Kelley shouts at him.

Huchthausen speaks into the handset. “Say again, sonar!” Then he relays: “Wait one, bridge.”

“Wait! Shit!” Kelley drops Huchthausen and runs to the starboard bridge wing. “Right full rudder, all ahead flank, prepare to fire port and starboard Hedgehogs! Combat, give me a range and bearing to the contact. Sonar, give me a firing solution for the Hedgehogs. Train out the starboard torpedo launchers.”

Erik’s eyes track Kelley’s movements and Huchthausen’s white face.

_ Charles? What did Shumkov just launch? _

_ It’s a decoy noisemaker, not a torpedo. He’s trying to lose us again. _

Erik nods quietly, and lays a light grasp over the Hedgehogs with his power, freezing the firing mechanism in place. 

The ship heels sharply to starboard and lurches forward as the shaft revolutions surge.

Kelley returns to the poor embattled ensign and snatches the radio handset with one hand and gathers up a fistful of Huchthausen’s shirt in the other. “Sonar! What’s going on!”

Erik can hear the tinny voice of the sonarman through the speaker. “Jeez, Captain! It’s not a torpedo, it’s a false target can; they’re trying to lose us again.”

Huchthausen echoes the words loudly, and a tremendous wave of relief floods over the bridge. Erik relaxes his hold on the Hedgehog torpedoes.

_ Erik? _

_ No one is firing torpedoes, Charles. _

_ They’re trying to surface. They’ve only got minutes of oxygen left, and they’ve hardly any power. Could you help? Gently enough they don’t notice. Shumkov is so exhausted and edgy, if he senses something interfering with whatever control of this submarine they’ve got left, well, you may cause him some unnecessary stress. _

_ For a man who doesn’t follow orders, I will handle his submarine with kid gloves. _

Erik can feel Charles’ link wrap around his power as he glides it around the hull. Erik considers forcing the engines to start, but senses that the main gears are cracked through. A magical repair job might cause more problems than it would solve. Slowly and gradually, Erik works with the tiny charge left in the economy motor to nudge the submarine towards the surface. 

_ Captain Shumkov doesn’t know if he’s surfacing into a shooting war or not. _

_ He’s maneuvering to come up on the easterly heading, Charles. I’m not putting them on the safety course. That’s their doing. _

_ Shumkov won’t shoot first, even if Moscow tells him to,  _ Charles reassures him.

_ Kelley won’t shoot first either,  _ Erik replies.

Several of the bridge officers turn to starboard as sonar tracks the sub’s ascent. Like a dragon emerging from the depths, a black submarine sail breaks through the waves, and then the long narrow hull of the full submarine breaches the surface.

The tension of the past seventeen hours cracks in half and lets the awe come through. Just for an instant. Then the  _ Blandy’s  _ forward five-inch gun mount slews out to starboard and aims directly at the submarine’s sail.

Captain Kelley explodes. “Get that fucking mount back to centerline! Bassett, get control of your guns. Who the hell ordered that gun out there? If that bastard sees that, he’s got every right to launch one at us!”

Erik yanks the gun back to centerline faster than the humans can react while Lieutenant Bassett threatens the gun captain with bodily harm and Charles yells at him.

_ I told you not to cause Captain Shumkov any more stress! _

_ He’s not going to fire, is he? _

_ No, but he’s thinking it’s a good thing he hasn’t eaten in so long, or he might have fouled himself. _

Several more minutes pass as Kelley orders the comm officer to signal the B-130.

_ Erik? What message did Kelley just send? Shumkov is laughing hysterically. _

_ Kelley asked if they need assistance. _

_ Well,  _ Charles’ mind tone is dry,  _ I believe that convinced Shumkov he’s not in a shooting war. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything in this chapter is as accurate as I could make it, (though I shifted the timing of certain events to fit the narrative). Captain Kelley really did drop grenades stuffed in toilet paper rolls (seriously, who could make that up?); Captain Shumkov really did think they were depth charges rather than signal grenades because grenades should explode at shallower depths; the special weapon officer really did faint when he thought Shumkov might arm and fire the nuclear torpedo; the Blandy’s gun really did target the B-130 briefly when it surfaced due to a miscommunication; and Captain Shumkov laughed until he cried when the Blandy asked if they needed assistance (then he turned it down). The horrendous conditions aboard the B-130 are accurate, as recounted by Captain Shumkov, along with his crew’s stoicism. 
> 
> On October 28,1962, the Soviet government announced on the radio that it would withdraw its missiles from Cuba. The encounter between the Blandy and the B-130 took place two days later, on October 30, from 3:00 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. The Blandy escorted the B-130 for two more days, before being sent off to count missiles on Soviet cargo ships that were leaving Cuba. A Soviet tug, the SS-20 Pamir, was sent to tow the B-130 back to Murmansk, a journey that took three weeks.
> 
> One bit of heroic insubordination that I was unable to work into the chapter involves Kontr Admiral Leonid Rybalko, of the Soviet Navy. The United States sent Moscow the message that upon grenade signaling, the submarines should surface on an easterly course, and that would be the indication that the submarine was not hostile. Because the Soviet Navy was operating under a communications blackout, the Soviet command said that this vital message should NOT be passed on to the submarine commanders. Appalled, Admiral Rybalko sent the message anyway. You can imagine what might have happened if Rybalko had not disobeyed orders. If Captain Shumkov had not turned to an easterly heading before surfacing, Captain Kelley might have believed that Captain Shumkov meant to fight. Captain Shumkov was carrying a nuclear-tipped torpedo, with authority to fire it if he was fired upon. Any escalation of hostilities could have been disastrous. Admiral Rybalko gave Captain Shumkov enough information to keep hostilities from escalating. For this insubordination, Admiral Rybalko was forced into retirement by the Soviet command.
> 
> Reading about Admiral Rybalko’s efforts to do right by his submariners was incredibly moving. Rybalko’s guiding mantra was: “You owe absolute loyalty to the men under your command, just as they are loyal to follow your orders blindly.” Rybalko was the only one to meet the B-130 when Captain Shumkov returned to port, and again kicked over the military hierarchy to get them fresh water and food, since the Soviet commanders put the suffering crew of the submarine on house arrest to keep news of the Soviet Union’s failure a secret. The heroism of Admiral Rybalko’s basic decency deserves much more recognition than he’s ever received, from both sides of that confrontation.


	20. Secret

The four of them, Charles, Erik, Logan and Swann, leave the _Blandy_ the same way they arrived -- by hoist cable and helicopter. The military wants to debrief them, then Moira needs to hear everything that happened. No military planes are available to take them home, so all five of them end up on a commercial flight that arrives at LaGuardia in the small hours of the morning. Charles is essentially walking in his sleep, and thinking that Raven was right - these suits itch abominably. He wants a cardigan.

The car drops off Charles, Erik and Logan at the mansion, and takes Moira and Swann somewhere else. Charles should know where, but he doesn’t care about anything right now. He’s weaving as he walks, conscious of Erik’s hand under his elbow, steering him so he doesn’t run into doorways. Erik and Logan exchange a few words, and Charles processes only the fact that there is no hostility in the words, and then Erik is guiding him up the stairs.

Erik follows Charles to his room - and it’s nice that they don’t need to have a fraught emotional conversation about sharing a room again - and undresses at the same time he unfastens the buckles on Charles’ suit with his power. The bastard - that’s how he’s getting those buckles to cooperate so easily. Charles wants to grouse at him, but he’s so tired he can’t even think in words. He falls onto the bed in nothing but his boxers, and then the line of Erik’s warmth presses up behind him and he turns into the kiss. It’s perfect, right up until it fades out.

“Charles? Did you just fall asleep while I was kissing you?” Erik whispers.

“Nnngh,” Charles mumbles back.

“Go to sleep,” Erik tells him.

“You woke me up to tell me to go to sleep?” Charles complains.

Now Erik is tucking Charles’ head onto Erik’s shoulder, and draping a leg over Charles’ ankle, the smugness pouring off of him in waves.

"You're gloating,” Charles murmurs.

“Mm-hmm.” Erik’s arms tighten around him, and Charles yawns so hugely that his jaw cracks, and then falls asleep on the exhale, wrapped in Erik’s happiness.

~###~

Charles doesn’t wake up again until the next afternoon. He can tell by the slant of the sunshine through the window. He blinks at it, all the events of the past two days cascading through his mind.

Erik cracks a bleary eye open. “Do you have to think so loudly?”

“You could always distract me,” Charles offers, sprawling himself over Erik’s chest.

“You give a lot of orders,” Erik grumbles at him.

“That was more of an offer, Erik,” Charles says. And then Erik’s words remind him of something. “About orders.”

“This isn’t going to happen very often, Charles, so listen closely,” Erik interrupts him. “I see your point about not killing men who are just following orders. Someone like Cheprakov or Huchthausen shouldn’t be killed because of decisions that are out of their hands. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Charles props his fist up on his chin on Erik’s chest, fingers stroking the hair just behind Erik’s ear. “Yes, that’s what I mean. But if someone is in a position to disobey bad orders, he should do it. You can’t trust someone who blindly follows every order.”

Erik’s hands stop massaging his leg, which is too bad. “Where did that come from?”

“Watching Shumkov. He knew not to follow all the orders from Moscow. Those orders had to get through his own moral filter as well, and he disobeyed them when he had to. His men trusted him, and he would disobey orders before he would break trust with them.”

“Yes,” Erik replies. “Yes, exactly.” His hands slide up to Charles waist, and then start lazily stroking over his back. “Kelley followed all the orders from Atlantic Fleet Command. None of them conflicted with his own moral code, so that worked out fine.” 

“It’s going to work, isn’t it?” Charles says.

“What is?”

“Us staying together. Working out a stalemate with the humans. It’s all going to work.”

Now those long-fingered hands are scraping down his back, making Charles arch into Erik. “Yes, I think as long as you’re willing to admit when I’m right and you’re wrong, we can get along.” He’s gloating again.

Charles grinds down into Erik, enjoying the way it makes him grunt and gasp. “You mean as long as you’re willing to see sense and stop being so damned stubborn, we’ll get along.”

Erik’s hand runs up the back of Charles’ thigh. “Do we really have to have this argument right this second?”

“The argument ends as soon as you admit I’m right, so just get it over with.” Charles trails kisses down Erik’s throat, pushing his head up to get at the hollow in his collarbone.

“What if we don’t get along? What if it’s a fight every single time?” Erik pushes Charles onto his back and pins his hands above his head. 

Charles’ blue eyes are lazy and hot. He pulls his hands out of Erik’s grasp and wraps them around Erik’s neck and pulls him in for a rough and thorough kiss. “As long as I win most of them, I suppose I can live with that,” he says when he lets Erik go.

“I’ll let you win occasionally,” Erik replies, and then takes Charles’ hard cock in hand and starts to stroke him. “If it makes you happy to think you won, I’ll let you think you won.”

“I’m the one who can ‘let’ you think whatever I want you to think,” Charles says, closing his eyes and thrusting into Erik’s grip.

There is a soft, low laugh right in his ear. “I know you better than that. You’d never do anything of the sort. Lucky for us the telepath is the one with all the ethics. You know I’d not be nearly as squeamish at doing whatever I had to do to keep you.”

“You have no idea, Erik,” Charles answers. His fingers dig into Erik’s shoulders and he presses his head against Erik’s cheek as his body builds towards his climax. 

Erik turns his head and presses his mouth to Charles’ lips and holds him there until he catches Charles’ cry in his own mouth. “You’re mine,” Erik whispers into him.

“Yours,” Charles agrees languidly. He lies in Erik’s arms a few moments, catching his breath and letting the relaxation soak in. Then he presses Erik onto his back and goes up on an elbow, tracing the lines of Erik’s cheekbones and jaw with his finger. Suddenly, he wants to tell Erik exactly what he’s done in order to keep Erik, but the comment about his ethics stops him. Erik’s blue-gray eyes are unguarded and happy right now, and Charles doesn’t want that to change. “How do you feel about belonging to me too?” he asks instead.

Erik shrugs. “It’s only fair.”

“I’ll take care of you, Erik,” Charles promises.

“That’s a funny way to phrase it,” Erik says with a laugh.

“No one gets to hurt you ever again,” Charles says, pressing kisses down Erik’s chest. “You don’t get to hurt me, not even if you’re angry.” Now his mouth is at Erik’s belly, and his hand is caressing his hip. 

“Of course not. I never have hurt you when I’m angry,” Erik replies.

“You know why, don’t you? I won’t let you,” Charles says. His fingers are fondling Erik’s cock and balls.

“You’re sexy when you’re mad at me, Charles. Fight me all you want,” Eriks says, his breath tightening in response to Charles’ touch.

“Oh yes, Erik, it’s sexy. That’s what it is.” Charles slides Erik’s cock into his mouth and starts to suck. 

That’s as much as he’s ever going to say about what he’s done. There’s no need to talk it through further, now that it’s over. Shaw is gone and Erik is his; all of that turmoil is in the past and it can stay there. Erik gasps as he arches his back and comes. As long as Erik is happy, Charles doesn’t need to overthink the situation. After all, there’s no way to change it now anyway. 

Erik said Charles can keep his secret, and that’s what he intends to do. 

* * *

 

The best thing about working at Lobster Avenue is that they let you take extra food home. It’s not like Cafe Cancale, where she worked when she was too young for bars and strip clubs, where you still had to pay for it or throw it away and Angel got fired for stuffing dinner rolls in her pockets rather than throwing them out. Angel is in their miniscule kitchen, dishing stuffed mushrooms and shrimp-parmesan steak onto the cracked ceramic plates Janos found at Goodwill when there’s a knock at the door. 

“I’ll get it,” Janos says, his hair still wet from the shower. He got home from his shift at the lumber yard and headed straight for the shower without even saying ‘hi’ to Angel. Not that she’s complaining that they don’t talk much, but they don’t talk much. That also means he doesn’t yell at her, and it’s never even looked like he’s thought about hitting her, so Angel takes it all in stride. She’s certainly been in worse situations. Janos is pretty decent in bed, so there’s that. It takes both of their crappy hourly paychecks to pay the rent, and Janos doesn’t try to cheat on his half of the expenses. Sometimes Angel runs through the good points to remind herself that things could be worse. The fact that someone doesn’t talk very much is really not the worst thing she’s had to deal with. She can live with loneliness as long as she isn’t afraid.

“Hey.” Their visitor has a gruff voice, and it only takes that one monosyllable for Angel to recognize it and for her insides to clench. True, they aren’t trying very hard to hide, but why come looking for them at all? She’s not going back.

“I have not hurt her. You can ask,” Janos says, his voice strained.

That’s right, the last thing Logan said to Janos was a threat to come find him if Janos hurt her. Angel smiles, wipes her hands on a towel, and walks out of the kitchen.

“Hi, Logan.”

“Angel,” Logan greets her, and then unexpectedly envelopes her in a hug. 

Angel is not used to being randomly hugged and she stiffens. Logan steps back, but as he does so, he moves her hair off her neck, and then picks up her hands and looks at her arms. He’s looking for bruises, she realizes. “He told the truth,” Angel tells Logan. “He hasn’t hurt me, he hasn’t ever even threatened to hurt me.”

“Really?”

“I do not hit women,” Janos says, sullen at the implication. “I never have.”

“Good, then I don’t have to kill you, bub.”

With that out of the way, Angel invites Logan to stay for dinner. 

The three of them sit down at the scarred Formica table to eat four-star food off cracked plates with nothing but cheap beer to drink. Logan compliments everything, and inhales the food. Janos picks at his entree, though Angel knows he’s usually starving after a shift at the lumber yard. Nerves.

“So how did you get mixed up with Shaw?” Logan asks him.

Janos startles at the question and glances at Angel. Angel shrugs at him. Janos has never talked to her about Shaw. But it is less nerve-wracking to answer Logan than to defy Logan, so Janos starts talking. The story comes in broken sentences at first - the strained childhood home life that fractured completely when his mutation manifested and the neighbors started murmuring words like ‘warlock’ at him. The anger against his entire family when a hailstorm, that he had nothing to do with, destroyed all the gardens and broke windows. His mother’s accusations; his father’s disapproval. Then meeting Shaw, and the wonder and hope it kindled in him to have someone say he was special, not demon-possessed, and there was a place for him in this world.

Logan tells part of his own story, about the military and Team X and Stryker. Angel had heard bits of it when she was at the mansion with the rest of them, but mostly she had ignored it. Now she’s listening.

When there is a pause in the conversation, Angel offers her own story. Both of them listen. Janos asks a question. Angel answers it. Then Angel asks Janos a question. To her surprise, he answers it with a story, rather than with a monosyllable.

Before long, two hours have passed and Logan announces he’s leaving. Logan hasn’t said anything for the past forty-five minutes, so that’s fine.

After he leaves, Janos asks Angel if her mother ever accused her of selling her soul to Satan. She tells him no, but she did accuse her of selling her body. Then she asks Janos if his father ever hit him. They talk for another hour before the crying starts. After they have both cried for much longer than Angel thought possible, they go to bed. 

The sex that night is exquisite.

* * *

 

Erik has had a bank account before. He’s even had a bank account with a lot of money in it before. But he’s never had a bank account with a lot of money, and nothing to spend it on. The bank statement he is looking at contains most of his CIA pay for nearly a year now (minus what he’s spent on clothes, which is less than what Charles accuses him of spending on clothes), plus the combat bonus pay from the Navy. 

He doesn’t need to buy a plane ticket to another continent. He doesn’t need to bribe anyone for information. He doesn’t need to stockpile the money because he won’t have a chance to earn more anytime soon. He doesn’t even need to pay rent or buy his own food.

Erik has never done anything spontaneous and frivolous before. He isn’t sure how that’s supposed to work.

Leaving the bank statement on the table, Erik opens the fridge and pulls out a tub of potato salad. Armando leaves out the bacon because of him. Erik has never had anyone do something thoughtful for him before either. A lot of things have changed in this past year, and it’s just now soaking in that these things might become permanent in his life. He could have a regular paycheck, a place to live, and a friend who leaves the bacon out of his mother’s prize-winning potato salad recipe. 

With a plateful of potato salad, Erik sits back down next to his bank statement. Yesterday’s newspaper is folded into a pile, balanced precariously on the edge of the table. Uppermost is an ad for a car, a Ford Fairline. It’s a newer model than the one he and Charles drove when they went looking for mutants last year. That Ford Fairline belonged to the CIA; Charles doesn’t own a car. When Erik asked him why, Charles had just shrugged and said he didn’t need one.

Charles doesn’t think he needs new clothes either, so he’s frequently wrong about what he needs.

“Did you leave any of that for me?”

Erik looks up. It’s Jerren, one of their CIA handlers. With Moira back on the CIA payroll, the handlers came back too. Jerren is looking at Erik’s plate of potato salad. Erik points at the tub of potato salad, which is still on the counter. Jerren dishes himself a plateful and sits down at the table across from Erik. 

“What do you drive?” Erik asks.

“Plymouth Reliant.”

“Hmm.” Erik shakes out the newspaper, but the Ford Fairline ad is the only one on the page. The dealership is in White Plains, which isn’t too far from here. He could levitate there, but he’s tired of being in the news. Erik holds up the ad. “Want to drive me there?”

“You gonna buy a Fairline?”

Erik shrugs. “I might see what else they’ve got.”

Jerren’s face splits into a grin. “Yeah, I’ll drive you down.”

Being a CIA handler on a slow day means taking one of your assets to a car dealership can count as work-related and Jerren doesn’t need to wait for his shift to end. That’s the good part. The bad part is that when Jerren asked for permission to leave the property with Erik, Campbell and Fisher ask where they’re going and then Jerren invites them to come along. It appears that car shopping is something human men think is a group effort. 

“Keep it incognito, alright?” Fisher says when they arrive at the dealership.

“Yeah, sure, totally casual,” Jerren agrees. 

Campbell starts talking about gas mileage and horsepower with the salesman. Erik glances at the Fords, then keeps going. His power is gliding over the cars, savoring the feel of steel and pistons. Some of these cars are serviceable, nice, good deals. Boring, unobjectionable and in all ways totally fine to buy. They give him the fidgets. He leaves the main showroom floor in search of something he isn’t sure he’s going to find. 

“Excuse me, sir, but this showroom is by appointment only.” The man who stops him is older, with fleshy shoulders and white hair in a buzzcut. Behind him is the car that Erik’s power was searching for.

Erik isn’t the fanciful type, but it seems to him that his power has found a car that actually enjoys being a car, that revels in speed and wants nothing more than to go fast and be seen. It’s too bad Charles isn’t here, because Erik has to wonder if he’s reading the car’s mind.

“I want that one,” Erik points past the salesman.

“The Aston Martin?” The salesman looks at Erik’s parka and jeans. “It may be a little out of your price range. If I could interest you in a Galaxie Skyliner, that may be closer to what you could afford. Sticker price is $3,350, but I’d take $50 off, since you’re obviously a man of taste.” The salesman takes Erik by the elbow and turns him back towards the main showroom.

Erik hands the salesman his bank statement, pulls his elbow out of the man’s grasp, and walks over to the Aston Martin. “This one,” he insists.

~###~

Jerren points out that Erik can’t drive home by himself, what with CIA rules and all that, and that sets off an argument among the three agents about which one of them gets to escort Erik home in the Aston Martin, and who has to ride in Jerren’s Plymouth. No one is stupid enough to suggest that anyone but Erik will be driving, and Erik grudgingly decides these humans are smarter than he thought. Besides, this is . . . kind of fun. He isn’t sure he’s ever really experienced what people are talking about when they use that word, but ‘fun’ seems to be the only word to fit what’s happening right now.

Campbell eventually wins the argument. Erik doesn’t mind as much he thought he might, because driving is even more of a rush with an admiring audience, and this car was designed to be seen, inside and out. 

Erik can’t help opening her up on the highway and finding out just how fast she can go. They leave the Plymouth in the dust, with Campbell whooping with excitement. It doesn’t take much encouragement for Erik to give the car a little more of a boost and send it streaking down the road. They don’t pass any cops, and the only time Erik picks the car up off the pavement is when he sees a cat in the road.

“Shiiiiiit! We’re airborne!” Campbell hollers.

Erik drops the car hard enough to make it bounce, because it has good suspension, and Campbell cheers.

“I didn’t want to hit that cat,” Erik explains.

“I didn’t know you’d care about something like that,” Campbell says.

“I didn’t want to get cat hair on my new tires,” Erik replies. Then he gives Campbell a wide grin.

Campbell laughs the rest of the way home.

Erik drives slowly up the long driveway, and then spins out in the gravel, just to prove he can. It doesn’t take long for whoops and yells to start because Charles is teaching a civics class in the front parlor overlooking the drive, and once Alex sees the car, class is over. Erik can’t even pretend to be irritated when everyone wants a ride, and he spends the next couple hours chauffeuring mutants and CIA agents up and down Graymalkin Lane while Charles hangs back by the entryway with his hands in his pockets, watching the hubbub with a smile.

It takes too long, but eventually Erik tells everyone who is still asking that they’ve already had a turn. He gets out, slams the door before Sean can sneak into the driver’s seat, and strides up to Charles. “Coming for a ride?”

“Aren’t you about running out of gas?” Charles asks, walking to the car with him.

“I ran out of gas an hour ago.”

Erik would do just about anything to produce that delighted laugh from Charles.

“I suppose that key in the ignition is just for show?”

They both get into the car and slam the doors shut. Erik grins at him. He leans back in the driver’s seat with his hands behind his head, starts the engine and shifts into reverse without touching anything, and blasts off down the drive with Charles, to the accompaniment of a Banshee shout.

The windows are open, even though it’s November, because having the wind in your hair is an important part of the experience. Charles shakes out his hair with a laugh and slumps back in the seat, that custom leather seat with one of those new-fangled levers that make the seat back adjustable. The salesman made them all try it out.

Erik peels out on the turn onto Graymalkin Lane and then reaches for Charles’ hand.

“Would you at least watch the road?”

“There are no other cars on the road for another half mile,” Erik replies.

“Well, you won’t be able to sense a deer,” Charles points out.

“Mm, good point, I don’t want to get blood on the paint job.” Erik glances at the road and then looks back at Charles, who doesn’t look as absolutely thrilled as he should look, what with riding in a car like this instead of being cooped up in a classroom. Or maybe that’s the problem.

“Did I interrupt something important?”

“No, just class. We were discussing the European Convention on Human Rights and drafting language to propose about an international mutants’ rights treaty.”

“You’re having the children do _your_ homework now, are you?” Erik says lightly.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Erik drops Charles’ hand and strokes fingers through his hair instead, running his fingertips across Charles’ temple to ask for a mental link. Charles isn’t having fun, and Erik wants him to. The car will only stay fun if Charles likes it as much as Erik does.

Charles lets him into his mind, but only politely, because he doesn’t want to say no and have Erik ask why. Erik senses a bit of Charles’ worry and hope about coming up with language to submit to the U.N., and his relief that Erik seems to be happy. There’s none of his own happiness, nothing of Charles himself. Charles frequently camouflages his own feelings behind his thoughts and worries about other people. Erik supposes that on some level, that’s unselfish and what makes Charles such a good leader, but it also gets annoying when Erik wants to pry past all that and find out what Charles is really feeling.

Charles shifts his head enough to break contact with Erik’s fingertips, though he hides the effect by tipping his head more towards the open window, as if he just wants to change the angle of the wind on his face. Erik lets go.

Ever since Cuba, when they patched things up between them without really patching things up between them, Erik finds himself dealing with the polite professor more and more. Charles, his Charles, has never come back to him, not all the way.

Who is he kidding? The problem isn’t Cuba. The problem is whatever secret Charles is keeping. But Erik promised not to pry.

“You can roll the window up if the breeze is cold,” Erik says.

Charles rolls the window up and they ride in silence another half mile or so.

Erik cuts the drive short. It just isn’t as much fun as he’d wanted it to be.

* * *

 

“You can’t bring her back here. Raven will kill her,” Logan says flatly.

“She has to go somewhere. We can’t put her in an ordinary mental institution where she can’t block out the thoughts of everyone around her, or keep from broadcasting her own thoughts into their minds. Can you imagine a telepath in an asylum? It doesn’t bear thinking of.” Chuck has his hands clasped in his lap. The more stressed out Chuck gets, the more he holds still. Logan wants to drag him outside and make him run or fight; anything but hold so still that he thinks his fears can’t find him.

“The CIA can find her somewhere to go. You’re not responsible for every mutant in the world, Chuck.” Logan drops down on the couch next to Chuck, which at least makes him move a bit.

“Logan, I imagine you can understand why I feel responsible for Emma’s condition,” Chuck says testily.

“You’re not the one that gave her those drugs. Shaw is responsible for Emma’s condition.”

“I certainly didn’t help the situation.”

Logan gives up trying to talk Chuck out of his guilt-fest. “I’ll talk to Moira. Leave this one to me, alright?”

“Of course I have to stay involved.”

“If Raven doesn’t kill her, Erik will. Out of the three people in the world willing to kill for you, I’m the only one not actively planning this woman’s death, so let me handle it.”

Chuck goes even more still. Logan wants to check for a pulse. “I wish no one was willing to kill for me. That’s more frightening than comforting, you know.”

“You ever gonna tell Erik what’s going on?”

“That would be a bad idea.”

In 130 years of living, Logan has never run across anything more frustrating than watching someone who matters to you do something stupid. In those same 130 years, Logan has learned that he can’t convince people to not do something stupid. He resists the impulse to cover Charles’ head with his hand and try to force Chuck to take whatever he needs from Logan to cheer himself up. Chuck doesn’t let him do that anymore.

Instead, he reaches over and gives Chuck’s shoulder a shake. “You’re the genius.” He stands to leave, putting a hand on Chuck’s shoulder to push himself up from this too-soft couch, and managing to get a couple fingers up into Chuck’s hair. The peace and hope he always pulls from Chuck has been more muted these past few weeks, ever since they got home from Cuba. Logan doesn’t know if it’s because his despair has permanently lifted and he doesn’t need the emotional recharge anymore, or if Chuck has changed. 

* * *

 

Hank wants to rebuild Cerebro. Erik isn’t so sure about that, although Charles is enthusiastic about the idea. Charles wants to use Cerebro to hunt for more mutants. That’s a good cause, in Erik’s opinion, but he worries about Charles becoming even more powerful than he already is. Charles is too ethical to be that powerful. Powerful men should be selfish and evil so no one trusts them, and will fight them to keep their power in check. Trustworthy men wield too much power because others expect them to set their own limits.

Erik meant what he said when he told Charles he could keep his secret. He didn’t say it because he trusts Charles, but because he wanted Charles back, and those were the terms.

Someone as powerful as Charles should not have secrets, especially not secrets about his power, and what he’s done with it. Erik is thinking these thoughts standing on a sidewalk in Hopatcong, New Jersey because he’s out of Charles’ range here. Another reason to not rebuild Cerebro is because then nowhere will be out of Charles’ range, and Erik will never know if Charles is plucking thoughts out of his head.

In the few weeks since Erik told Charles he could keep his secret, Charles has retreated. They’re sharing a bed again, and talking to each other, but the conversations are about the stalemate with the humans and the mutant agenda. Charles is very polite and polished in those discussions. The sex is good, in a mechanical sense, but that core of Charles is out of Erik’s reach now. The secret has become a barrier; Erik isn’t pushing Charles to tell him, but Charles is defensive of it nonetheless. The price of winning Charles back was to agree to this distance, though Erik didn’t know it when he made the bargain.

You can’t force someone to trust you any more than you can force someone to be trustworthy.

Erik has been waiting across the street from the sidewalk cafe on Aspen Boulevard for twenty minutes now. He has the photograph Commander Swann gave him in his hand, along with the information from the CIA. 

Without Cerebro, they’re limited to baseline methods of finding new mutants. Erik nagged Moira until the CIA tracked down Larry Swann using his Social Security number, which they got when Commander Swann asked his mother for it. A few phone calls to Larry’s employer and a chat with a friend yielded the rest. Larry eats at this cafe after his shift ends in the mid-afternoon before he heads home. Erik isn’t the social type, so he didn’t invite himself to join Larry for his late lunch. 

Larry straightens his baseball cap as he exits the cafe. Erik strides towards the crosswalk, timing it to reach Larry as he gets to the opposite sidewalk, and falls into step next to him. Larry is an inch or two taller than his brother, with burly shoulders and the knotted forearm muscles flecked with old burn scars that you’d expect on someone who wields welding equipment every day.

“Hey,” Erik greets him.

“Do I know you?” Larry’s voice sounds like his brother’s. He’s puzzled, not hostile, at Erik joining him on the walk to the bus stop.

“You might have seen me on the news,” Erik admits. 

“I don’t watch the news.”

That makes things easier. Erik hates dealing with people who have seen him on the news.

“I know your brother.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Larry says, and now his voice is belligerent.

“People call me Magneto,” Erik says.

“Damn, really?” Larry stops walking. It appears that Larry reads the news, even if he doesn’t watch it. 

“I worked with your brother. We cleaned up that tower and the submarine on the New London Naval Base. You heard about that?”

“The whole world heard about that,” Larry replies.

“People like us don’t have to hide anymore,” Erik points out.

“I’m not joining your band of merry men.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you to call your brother,” Erik replies.

Larry grunts and starts walking again.

Erik walks with him and considers what to say next. Larry doesn’t seem to be the sort to respond to an impassioned plea for forgiveness, any more than Erik is the sort of person to make an impassioned plea for forgiveness.

“What is it you can do?” Erik asks. 

“I’m a welder.”

“I meant your mutation.”

“I know what you meant.”

“If you want to keep it a secret, you don’t have to tell me,” Erik says. He’s getting good at letting people keep secrets.

“Good.”

Damn.

“How about I just give you this letter Swann asked me to give you and leave you alone?” Erik says, and pulls out an envelope. Commander Swann wrote ‘Larry’ on it in spiky cursive in blue ink.

“Aren’t you even going to ask why?” Larry demands, taking the envelope.

“Why what?”

“Why I don’t want to speak to this guy again,” Larry replies, waving the envelope in Erik’s face.

“I don’t care why,” Erik replies. Erik isn’t the introspective type. People do things. It doesn’t really matter why they do things. He’s only ever had two motivations in his life: kill Shaw and keep Charles, and those motives don’t require a lot of pondering.

“You should. You can tell a lot about a person if you know their motives, and Dan Swann isn’t who you think he is.”

It doesn’t take a psychologist to see that Larry wants to unload on Erik. Normally, Erik would dodge something like that, but the idea that motives define a person woke up a thought and he doesn’t have a reply because he’s thinking of Charles. Erik knows why he wanted to kill Shaw. He’s never wondered why Charles killed Shaw. As firmly as if Charles had pressed the insight into Erik’s mind himself, the thought unfolds that Charles’ secret is why he killed Shaw. Charles had never said or done anything to suggest that he wanted to kill Shaw; he kept trying to talk Erik out of killing him. Why would he kill Shaw after all that? 

Larry takes Erik’s silence as a void that needs to be filled. “I’m Bulldog. My mutation. I hold on.”

“That’s a mutation?” Erik asks, not meaning to sound puzzled, but it sounds like one of those mutations that might just be a baseline trait plus talent.

In response, Larry reaches over and grabs Erik’s wrist. Instinctively, Erik pulls away, but he can’t break Larry’s hold. Larry isn’t crushing his wrist, he’s holding it lightly, and none of the muscles in Larry’s forearm are even flexing, but Erik can’t break his grip. He yanks back, shakes his arm, twists Larry’s arm, and all he accomplishes is to garner a few wary looks from passersby who then give the two men a wide berth.

Larry lets go of Erik’s arm. Erik rubs his wrist, though it doesn’t hurt. There aren’t even red pressure marks like he expected. Larry held on with something other than strength.

“I work construction. I’m welding forty feet in the air, and I’ve never dropped anything. It gives me a good safety record,” Larry says with a shrug. “You know who figured out I was a freak? My brother. He’s the one that nicknamed me Bulldog. He was pissed I never dropped the football. I was the best receiver in the neighborhood, and I never dropped it, not even when I got tackled. Then baseball. I was just as good at baseball.” Larry shrugs again. “Dan was pissed that I got picked first for teams.”

Erik doesn’t say anything, but being better than your brother at sandlot sports doesn’t sound like a good reason for a permanent estrangement.

Larry stops walking, a block away from the bus stop. “Someone went on a crime spree. Stolen bikes, shoplifted gum, things like that. Dan asked me if it was me. It wasn’t, but he wouldn’t believe me. He said I was such a show-off, I was doing it for kicks.”

Larry holds his hand out flat. The envelope from his brother sticks to the palm of his hand without him holding on. “Sure, I’d thought about stealing stuff, but I didn’t do it.”

“How old were you?” Erik asks.

“Twelve. I was excited by what I could do at first, I kept making everyone watch. I was going to join the circus and be a trapeze artist. I can climb stuff if I go slow enough. I got all our friends to agree to pay me a dime each if I could climb this cement pylon under the bridge with just my bare hands, then Dan got mad at me when I made everyone pay up. He said it wasn’t fair.”

“Mm,” Erik says in reply, not saying what he really thinks because he knows this whiney man is important to Commander Swann. 

Larry got defensive. “That was just the beginning. Dan blamed me for everything. Every time the neighbors said something and mom cried, it was my fault. Every time dad sighed when he looked at me, it was my fault. It’s like Dan thought he could guilt me into not being a freak. I tried for a while. You ever tried to hide what you can do?”

“No,” Erik replies. 

“Good for you. I hid everything, or I tried to. If you want to keep someone in your life, you’ll try to hide the things about yourself that they hate. The thing is, you can’t hide forever.”

Erik is now staring at Larry. “You’ll hide the things they hate.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Larry replies impatiently. “Look, I know none of this sounds all that bad, especially not to someone like you, but it builds up over the years, you know? It’s like that Chinese water torture. It’s just one more drop, but you can’t handle waiting for one more drop. Dan made me crazy. What makes you think I’d want to talk to him ever again?”

It takes Erik a second to pull his train of thought away from Charles and back to Larry. “You said motives matter.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you! Dan can’t deal with someone who’s different!”

“All I’m hearing is a guy who wanted his brother to accept him so badly that he couldn’t stand it when he didn’t, so he left. Everything you said is more about your motives than his.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Larry shouts at him.

“Sure, yeah,” Erik says. He gave Larry the letter; the rest isn’t his problem. 

Erik turns and walks away, his mind racing. When he gets to the crosswalk, he turns around while he’s waiting for the signal to turn green. Larry is half a block away, trying to peel that letter off his hand and throw it into a trash can, but he can’t let go of it. It sticks to one hand, and then another. Larry shakes his hands, and the letter won’t let go.

Erik turns back to the crosswalk with a self-satisfied huff. Larry might think that he doesn’t want to speak to his brother again, but his mutation knows the truth. He’ll call, once he gets over his hissy fit. Funny that his mutation knows his own mind better than he does. Erik steps off the curb and onto the asphalt when the light turns green. The shock of the realization hits him so hard that he stops the car going past him and tires squeal and horns blare as other drivers try to avoid a pile-up.

Charles didn’t want to kill Shaw at all.

* * *

 

Armando startles when Alex interrupts his concentration. 

“Homework is vile,” Alex announces, throwing his pencil down on to the enormous oak desk in the library that the three of them are sharing. The wood is oiled and varnished with something that makes the grain and whorls stand out like artwork.

Sean just grunts. He’s been drawing geometric patterns in the margin of his paper for about fifteen minutes now.

Armando shifts his book to avoid Alex’s pencil. He’d finished high school before he started driving a taxi, but the segregated schools in Georgia were shit. When the professor offered to teach him, Armando jumped at the chance to keep going in math. Then the professor suggested something cultural as well. Armando’s family lore said some of their ancestors might have come from Burundi, so he asked if he could learn some African history. The professor had to order books from England, and they were histories written by white guys, but he was learning something, even if it was just how the white guys colonized Africa. There had to be more to his heritage than how they got conquered, right? Family lore also had it that a great-great-uncle went to Liberia. Maybe Armando could go visit, you know, if the CIA let him leave the country. 

“Seriously, dude, we saved the planet. Why do I have to write essays about Walt Whitman and Robert Frost?” Alex complains.

“Because you pissed off Hank bad enough that he’s not going to teach you science anymore. It’s your own fault you have to read poetry,” Sean informs him.

Armando really likes Sean, but someday his honesty is going to get him killed.

“Shut up, Sean,” Alex says sullenly. He takes back the pencil he tossed on the table and snaps it in half. “What are you reading?” he asks Armando.

Armando holds up his book, _Topics in West African History._ “I think my ancestors are from a country called Burundi.”

That shuts down Alex. Armando has noticed he’s uncomfortable talking about the fact that Armando is black. Armando has decided that it isn’t racism; Alex just doesn’t know how to talk to someone who is different than he is.

“What’s that like? To not even know where you’re from?” Sean asks, perfectly willing to talk to someone who is different than he is and shove both feet in his mouth while doing so.

“If I think about it too much, it makes me angry. I didn’t think about it much at all before the professor and Erik found me. I only ever thought about making enough money to pay the rent and send something home to my mama. Now we’ve got enough money that I don’t have to worry about it, so I can think about other things. Sometimes that’s good,” Armando says. Other times it feels like pressure, because he’s got time to wonder whether he’s doing any good in the world. His mama was really big on that Bible verse that said if the Lord gives you a lot, you gotta give a lot back. Armando has more now than he’s ever thought he would have: friends, money and influence, and it doesn’t seem like much to just send money home to his mama anymore. He hasn’t even asked the CIA if he can go to church, and his granny would roll over in her grave if she knew how long it had been since Armando went to church.

“Why are you angry about it?” Alex asks. “I don’t know where my ancestors are from, and I don’t care.”

“Don’t be a dick about it,” Sean jumps in. “If you cared, you could find out. Armando can’t.”

Armando appreciates Sean’s willingness to speak up on his behalf, but there are times he wishes Sean would let him speak for himself. “This whole culture is about your ancestors, Alex. And my culture got erased like it didn’t even matter. That’s wrong. It all matters, where I’m from, why I’m black, the culture we hung onto, because it’s not all gone, not entirely. It’s like the only black guys that make it in this country are the ones who act like white guys, and it shouldn't be that way. We got a culture; we got a history; we got a future too, if we can figure out how to get there. I’m not angry like I want to kill people; I’m angry like I want to do something and I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s different?” Alex asks, genuinely puzzled.

“What?” Armando asks, wondering what Alex is referring to.

“Angry to kill, and angry to do something. That’s different?”

“Yeah, man, like I don’t think we need to hurt each other, just listen more and let people be people. Don’t make us all try to be white, you know?” Armando is talking out ideas he’s never really thought through before.

“Like all those people who don’t want us to be mutants,” Sean puts in.

“I’m still angry as hell about that,” Alex says, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest.

“Is that how you ended up in solitary confinement?” Sean asks.

“Some guy pissed me off, so I nearly killed him. Instead of doing the Erik thing and figuring he deserved it, I had all this angst about how guilty I’d feel if I actually killed someone. So I asked,” Alex replies.

“You asked to be put in solitary confinement?” Sean clarifies, shock written all over his face.

“Wouldn’t you?” Armando says before Alex can answer. “If you were scared you could kill someone without even meaning to, wouldn’t you rather be alone than risk that?”

“Hey, Professor,” Alex says.

“Hello, yes, how are you all?” the professor says, pausing in the doorway and sounding like he’s on auto pilot. Armando thinks it’s weird that the better things get, the more haunted the professor looks.

“I haven’t finished that essay yet,” Sean begins.

“I don’t care about that,” Professor Xavier says, almost rudely. “Armando, I was speaking with Moira, and she has a message from your mother to pass on to you. She wants you to call this gentleman, I believe she said he was a Baptist preacher.”

“Baptist? We’re Evangelicals.” Armando reaches out to take the note Professor Xavier hands him. “Did she say why?”

“I didn’t speak to her personally,” Professor Xavier replies. “Use any of the house phones. Excuse me, please.” He turns around and walks out of the room. Even when he’s busy, the professor is usually more friendly than that. Armando wishes Erik would get back from tracking down Commander Swann’s brother, though lately the professor is as tense around Erik as he is around the rest of them.

“You have to call a preacher? Is that bad?” Sean asks. “Who is it?”

Armando has never heard of him. He hands the note to Sean.

“Who’s Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.?”

Armando shrugs. “I guess I’ll find out.”

* * *

 

Charles knows Armando was talking about Alex just now, not him, but it still jarred him down to his toes to hear Armando say it. He’s worried so much about how Erik might react if he told him what really happened in the submarine that day that he’s not thought at all about how others might react. Of course everyone would want him to put himself in solitary confinement rather than risk unintentionally killing someone else. 

He seats himself behind his desk and picks up a paper from his inbox and tries to concentrate on Dr. Sutherland’s request for him to come speak at the New England Conference of Cellular Biologists. He should be thrilled at the invitation, especially since they want Hank to come too. Instead he’s wondering if he should spend his time working on forming a committee to study the ethics of mutantism, and penalties for crimes and violations. 

Through the closed window, Charles hears the hum of the Aston Martin’s motor as Erik arrives home from his trip to New Jersey in search of Commander Swann’s brother. Erik is full of surprises anymore: he bought that extravagant car; he volunteered to track down Larry Swann; he’s even come into a history class and told Alex, Sean, Armando and Raven a little bit about the concentration camps. He only lasted a few minutes before the lampstand twisted into barbed wire and he had to leave, but he made the effort. 

It’s been beautiful to watch Erik unfold his personality from the harsh limits he’d placed on himself all those years. Erik will be alright, regardless of what happens to Charles, and that comforts him. Maybe he’ll suggest a ride in the Aston later this evening; Erik likes that. The car has a heater, so it’s comfortable even in this early December cold. It’s amazing what they do with cars nowadays.

Idly, Charles reaches out with a mental _hello_ and is sucked in by Erik’s mind, which is reaching back so strongly it’s a shout and his thoughts are pushing into Charles’ head. Charles is already in too much turmoil from hearing Armando’s comment to readily untangle his mind from Erik’s. Mental shields take some composure to impose, and he wasn’t expecting to need shields when he was only going to say hello.

The flood of feeling from Erik washes over him. Erik knows. He knows part of it, and he’s going to insist that Charles tell him the rest. There’s nothing to be done about it now. The only way to fix it would be to wipe the knowledge from Erik’s mind, and then wipe the knowledge that there is even anything to know. He can’t do it, though part of him wishes that this inconvenient survival instinct of his would do it for him. 

Charles stands when he hears Erik’s footsteps in the hallway. He comes through the door shucking off his coat and drops it on an armchair, pinning Charles in place by the force of his gaze. Erik strides to the desk, pauses for just a moment, studying Charles, then takes Charles’ face in his hands and presses his cheek to Charles’ temple. “Look,” he orders him.

Charles doesn’t really have a choice, so he sifts through the memory of Erik’s conversation with Swann’s brother, and the realizations he had.

“You’ll hide the things they hate. If you want to keep someone in your life badly enough, you try to hide the things they hate,” Erik repeats. “Why are you keeping a secret, Charles? Why will I hate you?”

_You said I could keep my secret._

_If you’re secret is that I’ll hate you, then you’re wrong and I won’t have you thinking it. Have you not felt this distance between us?_

“Well,” Charles says verbally in an effort to slow down the tsunami of thoughts from Erik. It’s harder to maintain the distance he needs to protect himself in a mental link, especially one as tumultuous as this.

“Your secret is why you killed him,” Erik states.

“And how,” Charles adds in defeat. Erik is going to know anyway.

“You killed him with telepathy,” Erik says.

“It isn’t just telepathy that I have, Erik. Emma couldn’t have killed me, not even with her power souped up by those drugs Shaw gave her. Emma can’t kill with a thought the way I can.” He droops, leaning toward Erik, and Erik puts an arm around his waist and draws him in. “I told his heart to stop beating, and it did. I can control people, Erik, you’ve seen me do it; I’ve done it to you. I can control whether or not someone’s heart beats, the same way I can control whether or not someone can use his power.”

“That’s just you?” Erik asks slowly, and his hand pauses in its stroke through Charles’ dark hair.

Charles nods against Erik’s shoulder. “Well, Emma is the only other telepath I’ve met, so perhaps there are others like me and we just don’t know it yet. Rather frightening, isn’t it?”

“Not if they’re as ethical as you are,” Erik declares, and his hand resumes carding through Charles’ hair.

“I’m not _him_ anymore!”

“Who?”

“Who you wish I was; who you need me to be. The ethical man in the library who told you that I wouldn’t force someone to be my friend. You remember? I told you I would never force someone to like me, and that’s when you said you wanted to count me as a friend. I’m not that person anymore,” Charles says, tightening his hold on Erik because this might be their last embrace. “I would . . . I would . . . well, you know what I would do.”

“Why did you kill Shaw, Charles?”

“His mind was full of plans to take you, twist you, ruin you so we could never be together. I killed Shaw to keep you.”

Charles is attuned to every breath Erik takes, and every thought in his head. He’s so still right now; the calm before the storm. “Why does it feel like you haven’t told me the whole truth?”

_I guess on some level I want to tell you the whole truth, or I wouldn’t have let you feel like that._

_Charles?_

_A few days before I killed Shaw, I linked minds with Logan. I wanted to find out why he could feel things from me that I wasn’t feeling myself. I went too deep; his mind pulled me in and I couldn’t separate out entirely afterwards. He didn’t mean to do it, but he kept things from my mind; I took things from his. Logan’s mutation is unconscious - he doesn’t have any control over it. He’s going to survive no matter what, and my mind was a source of health for him._

“And?”

“There was too much about you in there. I need you on levels I didn’t even know about, Erik. Logan’s mutation needs me, and I need you, and Logan’s mutation doesn’t ask for permission before it tries to fix things, and . . . and now I don’t either.”

Charles brushes his fingertips across Erik’s temple, and takes him into the memory of the mindlink with Logan, and then everything that came after -- letting Logan hit Erik on the roof, his efforts to set a mental block during meditation to keep himself from interfering with Erik’s plan for revenge, stopping Erik again by the submarine and then realizing what was happening when Logan linked with him. 

_But . . ._

Charles interrupts. _Watch the rest of it._ Charles takes Erik into the memory of Shaw’s death: Charles’ attack on Emma’s mind once he sensed her raking up memories in Erik’s mind; the fear and disorientation of reaching out to help Erik while he was still reeling from Emma’s onslaught; the strength of Shaw’s hate-fueled personality and the depth of his desire to destroy Erik; and then Charles’ need for Erik that simply reached out and removed Shaw.

 _I didn’t mean to do it,_ Charles admits. _If I’d fought for you, that would be one thing, but I didn’t intend to kill him._

There is no response from Erik, and Charles doesn’t pry. He’s too exhausted by his own honesty to search for any more truth.

At last, Erik says, “You lost control of your power? You killed him by accident?”

“Yes.” Admitting it to someone else both relieves Charles and condemns him.

“That’s a relief. I thought it was pretty shitty you’d do something like that on purpose, knowing what it meant to me to kill him myself,” Erik says frankly.

“Erik! I killed someone unintentionally!” How is Erik missing the bigger picture here?

“Fortunately, it was someone who really needed killing. Even your mistakes are ethical, Charles. Damn, you’re so perfect it’s disgusting.”

“Erik!”

“This is it? Really? This is the secret you’ve been keeping?” Erik sets his hands at Charles’ waist and pushes him back enough to look at him. Erik’s eyes are warm and relieved, almost amused.

It’s patronizing, and Charles’ jaw tightens. After all the pain and grief he’s suffered because of this, Erik does _not_ get to laugh it off.

“Who’s your professor?” Erik brings a hand up to stroke along Charles’ jaw.  

“Beg pardon?” Charles asks.

“This whole school of ours . . .”

Erik said ‘ours.’

“. . . is to help these children control their powers. You’re the professor, and your role is to teach control. Who’s your professor? Who teaches you control?”

“There’s no one. You know that.”

Erik’s eyes go from amused to soft. One hand goes around to the small of Charles’ back and presses him close again; the other hand goes to his face to trace a fingertip along his brow and down his cheek. “You’re always going to do more for other people than anyone can do for you, aren’t you?”

Charles gives up on using words and just throws a welter of emotions and fears at Erik telepathically: _I can’t be as good as I need to be; people are afraid of telepathy and I am too; I have to have perfect control of my telepathy or I can’t trust myself around people; you twist my telepathy out of my control and I’m selfish enough that I want you anyway; Logan accepts my telepathy but he’s the reason I’ve lost control of it; I need both of you, and you’re both terrible for my control; I don’t know what to do._

_Am I supposed to talk you out of any of that?_

_I don’t think you can._ Charles can’t help but feel forlorn about that.

_No point in trying, then, is there?_

That hand that’s been caressing his face palms his cheek and turns him towards Erik. Erik’s kiss isn’t like his usual kisses - there’s no desire behind this one; he isn’t trying to arouse Charles. Instead, he holds Charles’ mouth with his own to keep him close while he draws out Charles’ fears and cradles them in acceptance. _I’m not afraid of your telepathy anymore; you wouldn’t be you without telepathy; I love that your telepathy wants me so much it ignores you whenever it wants; don’t keep secrets from me; I let go of Shaw; when are you going to let go of him?_

“Erik, that doesn’t solve anything!” Charles protested, turning his head to end the kiss.

Erik links his hands behind Charles’ back, but otherwise lets Charles pull away. He puts his palms flat on Erik’s chest to keep some distance between them. “I can’t solve this for you, Charles, any more than you could solve Shaw for me. You killed him, but I still had to let go of him.”

Charles flinches at Erik’s matter-of-fact tone.

“Logan and I totally fucked with your power, didn’t we?” Erik’s voice is serious, and Charles is glad the amusement is gone. He knows Erik wouldn’t be eaten up with guilt about this, but he still needs Erik to not shrug him off. “It’s a good thing Raven wasn’t involved, or you really wouldn’t have anyone who doesn’t throw you for a loop.”

“Raven was involved,” Charles corrects him. “If she hadn’t stopped you from killing Shaw, you would have killed him before I could.” Charles watches Erik’s expression while he processes that before Charles tells him the logical conclusion. “I’m better off alone, Erik. Everyone is safer that way.”

“Is safety really the ultimate goal?” Erik asks.

Charles can sense Erik’s tentativeness. It wouldn’t take much to shatter Charles’ connection and send him into a self-imposed exile. What surprises Charles is that there isn’t any relief on Erik’s part. Shouldn’t he be relieved that Charles will go quietly, for the good of everyone around him? “Doesn’t it have to be? That’s all you’ve ever wanted from me too, Erik, don’t try to deny it. This whole connection between us got started when I assured you that I would never use my power to try and keep a friend. I killed someone to keep you, Erik! What happens next time? You’re so much more to me than a friend.” Charles’ voice broke on the last sentence.

“Well, I would hope so, since I’ve made you the center of my life. You’re mine, Charles, I thought you knew what I meant when I said that. It means you’re _mine,_ fuckups and all. You act like I’ve got you on some sort of probation and I walk away if you fuck up. That’s twice you’ve brought up the way you misinterpreted that time we talked in the library.”  
“Beg pardon? I’m a telepath, Erik, I don’t get accused of misinterpreting things very often.” 

Erik puts a hand on his neck and pulls Charles in to rest his cheek against Charles’ temple. 

_It wasn’t your promise to not force someone to like you that tipped us over the edge from acquaintances to friends. It was the entire conversation, where you admitted you weren’t as confident as you pretend to everyone else. You needed me. You trusted me enough to show me what was under that polished exterior of yours._

Charles doesn’t like what’s under that polished exterior of his. He pulls away and Erik lets go and then follows him. They end up sitting on opposite ends of the small couch in Charles’ office. 

_You made me choose between you and Shaw. I chose you, the real you, Charles, not the confident, arrogant professor who never fucks up. He’s all kinds of annoying, if you want me to be honest about it._

_You don’t have to be that honest._

“Now we’re to your choice, aren’t we Charles? Which version of you do I get?” Erik asks.

“I have to know right now?” Charles replies. The assumption that no one will tolerate a telepath who fucks up once in a while is too deeply engrained. He can’t let go instantly, any more than Erik could let of Shaw right away. But still, the possibility is there now, the idea that he can be as human as he is mutant, with all the imperfections that implies, and still keep the people he loves. It’s such a glorious idea that it may take some time to ease into it.

“You can think about it on the drive,” Erik replies, standing up and holding out a hand.

Charles takes his hand and Erik pulls him to his feet. “Where are we going?”

“Do we have to have a destination? Have you seen my car? We drive for the sake of driving, Charles. The destination is an afterthought.”

That’s a different way of thinking. You don’t have to know where you’ll end up, just know who you’re with. That could apply to much more than a drive.

“Are you going to let me drive?”

“Why would I do that?” Erik opens the office door without touching the doorknob.

“Because I want to drive,” Charles replies.

“It’s my car,” Erik objects, remembering to grab his coat before he follows Charles out of the office.

“Now who’s the control freak?”

“You drive like shit, Charles.”

“How would you know that?” Charles glances up at him as they run down the stairs.

“I listened to you grind the gears in that Ford we drove last year. You made that car cry, Charles.”

“Cars don’t cry, Erik,” Charles replies, pulling his coat off the coat tree by the side door and winding a scarf around his neck. 

“That one did. I drive.”

“Not if I get there first,” Charles says, and takes off running.

He can hear footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him, and then they catch up to him. Erik reaches out to catch his hand and now he’s running together with Erik towards much more than just a drive in a car. 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! (And commenting, many many thanks for the comments.) Also many thanks to my beta reader TaylorAriel, and her marvelous feedback. You can thank her for the ending - I was going to have Charles keep his secret and maintain that tension. I think the resolution turned out better than what I had planned. Beta readers are the best!


End file.
